A Boy and Girl Affair
by Aveza
Summary: High school relationships are precarious to begin with. Sentiments are young. Affections are new. But, for some, the infamous teen fling presents a challenge, and Tai is determined to make his more than just 'a boy and girl affair.' Tai/OC. Sorato, among others. Post-"The Center of Everything" [*Update!* For Tai, cookies apparently solve everything. ]
1. Paris: Part I

**Disclaimer****: I do not own Digimon. I can only claim my OCs.**

**Warnings/Reading Deterrents****:This collection of stories will be set in a High School Alternate Universe. It will not feature any Digimon partners. There will be mentions, but nothing otherwise. OCs will be abundant. Active pairings will include: Tai/OC, Sorato, Koumi, Takari and Kenyako, with Davis/OC. Dub names will be used.**

**A/N****:This is a SHORT STORY COLLECTION expanding on the events that occurred in **_**The Center of Everything**_**. Individual chapters will, unless otherwise stated, be one-shots. The events that occur are NOT to be taken in sequential order (with a few noted exceptions).**

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- _**A Boy and Girl Affair**__-_

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_Summary__: High school relationships are precarious to begin with. Sentiments are young. Affections are new. But, for some, the infamous teenage fling presents a challenge, and Tai is determined to make his more than just 'a boy and girl affair.' In this collection of short stories, Tai and the rest of the Digidestined experience the ups, downs, and nuances of budding, teenage romance._

xXx

_Paris: Part I_

_(Toucher)_

xXx

_toucher_ – (v.) _to touch; to approach, to be/to go near; to affect_.

xXx

**H**e watched her step off the plane with a kick in her step and a swagger in her narrow hips. Her loose braid lay slung over a shoulder, revealing a patch of pale skin at the nape of her neck. The mild atmosphere of the Parisian summer blew in from the airline exit and ruffled the ends of her dress. She tilted to the side, tugging at the small carry-on in her grasp, her sloped neckline drooping and sneaking him glimpses of her nude bra-strap and the sharp contours of her prominent collar bones.

He would have kept staring, itching to make contact with her skin, but a flight attendant's greeting drew his attention. Tai's brown eyes veered away.

A painted smile welcomed him with a cheery, "_Bienvenue à Paris_." He grinned.

"_Merci!_" he said brightly, giving the uniformed woman a nod before falling into step with his girlfriend. He transferred his backpack to his other shoulder and touched Hana in the spot he had been looking at, sliding his fingers over the skin beneath her braid.

"Excited, are we?" she asked.

Her neck was warm—not overtly, not enough to make either of them sweat—but soothingly, like a balmy breeze. His fingers inched up, poking into her hair.

"Meh," he said, shrugging. "Not really."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, catching the faint, floral fragrance of her perfume. Both of them were mindful not to trip as they followed her father down the connecting corridor to the airport.

She chuckled, preening at the open display of affection while simultaneously calling his bluff with an elbow nudged in his side. His hand glided down her spine, sensitive to the tremors of her laughter, and paused at the small of her back where her dress bunched. He reconsidered and opted to grab hold of her fingers.

The airport was bustling when they exited, the squeaks of countless rolling suitcases magnified to a full blown clamor—of footsteps hastening over the tile, of the wide, circular swell of murmured French. Overhead, the P.A. system blasted flight updates. People passed by in all sorts of directions, shouting into cell phones, juggling baggage, searching for scattered loved ones. Many others were stationary. Wayfarers sat at café tables and stared up at the constantly changing flight schedules. Those with layovers caught forty winks on vacant benches or seats.

Her voice, when she called out to him, was nearly lost in the din.

"_Français_, _s'il te plait_," she said primly, jutting her chin. She must have been listening to him jabber about his hankering for a French croissant. He was starving, and Mr. Kurosawa had led them past five cafés without pause—not that he had been counting.

Two days prior, he had been in Japan, painstakingly preparing for his trip to Paris. His mother and sister shared their frenzy over the items and clothes he'd have to pack while his father was busy reminiscing about his experience backpacking through Europe as a young adult. The senior Kamiya would stare absently at the ceiling with a wistful rub of his chin while the missus and Kari would ransack Tai's closet, pulling clothing off by the hanger, themselves alone deciding whether or not the item in hand was suitable, at least according to Parisian standards.

When he wasn't arguing with his mom over his clothes or ignoring his father's anecdotes, Tai was with Hana, practicing his French. Because he had told her of the hubbub centering on his ill-planned departure—which his mother kindly pointed out was Hana's fault—she had been 'creative' with her teaching methods.

"_Répète après moi,_" she said in a hitched breath during one lesson. He hovered over her on her bedroom floor, his forearms planted by each side of her head, the clothing both of them kept on making them feel like they were baking in the scorching August sun. He kissed her, fire on his lips, her hands raking through his hair, and she broke away and finished her sentence: "_J'ai faim_."

In a pant, he echoed the words formed on her tongue, and the cycle would repeat until they were both, regrettably, 'Frenched'-out.

The memory was blinked out of his eyes as they took the tram to baggage claim, Hana's pull on his hand yanking him back to the present. As they alighted at their gate, he put what he learned that _eventful _afternoon to use.

"_J'ai faim_," he said.

"_Je sais_," Hana replied, grinning at his efforts to speak her language. "_Moi aussi_." Even on her tiptoes, she couldn't quite reach his face for a kiss, so she grabbed his chin and unleashed her praise on his cheek.

"But, in all honesty, Tai," she said, pausing behind her father at the conveyor belt. "We probably won't be eating for a while. My aunt wants to treat us this evening when we arrive at her apartment."

His stomach growled as if on cue, and Hana patted his middle affectionately, her index finger tracing a cola stain he got on their fourteen hour flight. When their luggage came around, Tai, Hana, and Mr. Kurosawa reached for their corresponding suitcases, heaving the hulking things off and wheeling them out to the line of idle taxis parked by the main exit.

After a few words with a cab driver, they were on their way into the city, beginning the half hour drive from the airport to the heart of Paris. Tai spent most of the time looking out his window while Mr. Kurosawa informed Hana on the goings-on of her late mother's only sibling, who happened to own the apartment they would be staying in for their three-week vacation.

On the flight to Paris, Tai had been cautioned not to take Hana's eccentric painter of an aunt too seriously. She had described her Aunt Suzanne "Zsazsa" Livry as 'your typical, mentally-imbalanced artist, who paints in her studio dressed in nothing but a pair of overalls, her tits hanging out, and a cigarette in her hands.'

It was during that time that Hana graciously added that her aunt's apartment was located in Paris's fourth _arrondissement_, in _Le Marais_ district, which was not only an historic and opulent center of the city, but also a hotspot for budding artists and gay culture.

"It's safe, bright, and lively," she told him, grinning from ear to ear. "You'll like it."

He shouldn't have doubted her. It was upsetting enough for him to hear that his getaway in Paris with Hana would not land him in a five-star Parisian hotel with chocolate bon-bons waiting for him on his king-sized bed, the Eiffel Tower silhouetted in the glorious sunset outside their window, or that Mr. Kurosawa would be their constant and vigilant chaperone during all times. But as they cruised closer to their destination, he perked up. He leaned his elbow on the window ledge, neck craning as he looked up at the antique visage of the city.

His eyes roved over the iron-wrought balcony railings of the nineteenth century buildings edging the streets. On street corners were cafés, alive with activity, the chairs and tables on their terraces brimming with diners. People were everywhere, walking, biking, zipping by on their mopeds—but not at the frantic, determined pace he was accustomed to in Japan. There was leisure in the steps of these people, contemplative pause. It was busy—every city was, really—but not desperately.

They turned a corner down a narrow, cobble-stoned _rue_, the cab getting squeezed under the shadows cast by the tall buildings on opposing sides. The atmosphere calmed. Fewer pedestrians ambled down the narrow sidewalks.

Smoothly, the taxi came to a halt beside their apartment building. Its façade was aged, the stone dirty, but it stood regally on its side of the street, flowers perched on the black iron window railings. Large windows reflected squares of light.

Inside, the building was cool and dim. Their footsteps and voices echoed in its cavity, up its flights of stairs, which they had to climb—all five sets of them, luggage in tow—before they reached their temporary living quarters. They were still recovering by the time Hana's _Tante_ Zsazsa opened her studio and greeted the people on her doorfront with an indecipherable cry and a spread of her skinny, tan arms.

"_Mon beau-frère!_" she shouted, giving Mr. Kurosawa a hug and a _bisou_ on the side of his face. "_Et ma jolie nièce!_" Her pencil thin fingers seized Hana's face, squishing her cheeks before smothering the surface with kisses that left the cold smell of tobacco in the air.

Tai felt a bead of sweat gather around his temples when her blue eyes set on him, her thin, nigh invisible eyebrows rising and her lips pursing into a perfect 'o.' She was dressed in a paint-splattered tank-top and faded jeans rolled up over her knobby knees.

"_Et vous?_" she questioned, almost incriminatingly. _"Qui êtes-vous?_" She looked at Hana. "_Où est Ryo?_"

Smiling sheepishly, his girlfriend of four months explained his relation to the Kurosawa family. Tai couldn't help but notice that Hana played with the tail of her braid ceaselessly while she spoke, a nervous tic she took on since she wore no headband.

When Mlle. Livry's eyes fixed on him a second time, he was prepared to properly introduce himself. His mouth was even open to speak, but she beat him to the first word.

"Tai."

She enunciated his name in her heavy French accent so that it sounded more like 'Tai-_uh_.'

"_Enchantée_."

By reflex alone, Tai mumbled his version of the greeting, "_Enchanté,"_ before extending his hand to her and giving a short bow, to which she responded with an amused titter.

"_Non_. _Je ne serre pas la main. J'etreins_," and with that, she brushed his hand away and embraced him.

Afterwards, she cooed something in French to Hana as they made way into her apartment, the comment making Hana giggle nervously and her father cough into a fist. Tai was tempted to ask what Mlle. Livry had said, but never got the chance. He stopped midstride in the foyer, poised to take off his shoes as was routine of him, when the stench hit, swiftly followed by a fitting sight to accompany it.

The polite smile he had had plastered to his face was crumbling faster than the worn siding of the apartment building. Hana's _Tante_Zsazsa's studio smelled overwhelmingly of the chemical fetor of paint mingled with the aromatic clouds of cigarette smoke that seeped deep into every piece of upholstered furniture. Clothes, newspapers, paint tarp, and brushes were strewn across the wooden floors like debris from a hurricane. What was supposed to be a dining room was lined in squares of canvas, folded up easels criss-crossing over each other on the paint-specked floor cover. Books were stacked high on a littered coffee table, pages ripped out, some open and some face down, others being used as coasters to numerous mugs of week-old coffee.

Tai knew he kept his own bedroom no neater than a pig sty, but that was by his mother's standards. Compared to Mlle. Livry's quaint and disastrously cluttered abode, he was the perfect image of order.

Hana must have noticed his misgivings about his home for the next three weeks. His girlfriend seized his hand and dragged him into the living room, muttering a quiet reminder not to take off his shoes lest he contract hepatitis.

Mlle. Livry quickly brushed off a heaping pile of dirty art tools on her tattered couch and gestured for them to sit while she eased a bony hip onto a neighboring stool. She retrieved a cigarette from her jeans' pocket and lit it in their midst.

He was still surveying his surroundings, trying not to make his wandering eyes obvious to his hostess, while Hana, Mr. Kurosawa, and Mlle. Livry spoke. Tai saw no point in following their conversation anyway, as they spoke rapidly and exclusively in French. Throughout, Hana had her arm looped through the crook of his. Once, she interlaced their fingers loosely, enough to casually maneuver his arm so that, when she let go of him, his hand rested on her lap. He wanted to pinch her thigh at that moment, and she knew it, her motives betrayed by the thin, lop-sided smirk curling her lips.

"_Alors_…"

Mlle. Livry got off her stool with a yawn and stretch of her arms. She flicked the stub of her cigarette into the growing sea of trash at her feet before grinding it with the heel of her bare foot. After re-twisting her graying blonde hair into a loose bun, her hands were thrust into her pockets, and she eyed the people on her couch. Her gaze settled on Tai.

"Someone tells me you are famously known for your appetite," she said slowly, suppressing her accent and failing at it. "You all must be starving. Shall we eat?"

Tai expelled a longwinded sigh of relief, nearly melting into the couch as the breath escaped him. Hana was mindful to keep him from throwing his head fully back, as his scalp would have collided into the sharp edge of a palette knife. He had already received stitches back there once before, and he didn't need another set.

"Yes, please!"

xXx

The clock in Mlle. Livry's bedroom ticked in time to the aria Mr. Kurosawa was badly belting out in the bathroom. Though presently unattended, Tai and Hana were strangely quiet, conversing only in the lowest, most gentle of tones, both their eyes droopy with fatigue.

He rested his head contentedly in between Hana's open legs, her hands on his chest, the swell of her full stomach as she breathed softly pushing against the back of his skull. He lay on Mlle. Livry's neatly kept bed, the down comforter beneath him cushioning his body like a cloud. Unlike the rest of the apartment, Mlle. Livry's bedroom and bathroom were immaculate, the very picture of Parisian sophistication. When Tai had stepped through its French doors to head for the shower, he thought he had been magically transported to the five-star hotel of his dreams.

His wonder over the realization had been the last thing discussed as he and Hana reclined on her aunt's bed, and Hana did not hesitate to give him her aunt's reasons for keeping her sleeping quarters tidy.

"Forget I asked," he had groaned, regretting ever delving into the private life of Hana's oddball aunt—unintentional though it was.

At present, the cliff-dive that was jet lag was finally hitting him, coupled with the food he had wolfed down at the Algerian restaurant Mlle. Livry had brought them. He was so full upon leaving that Mlle. Livry teased that he was about as well fed as the lamb they had consumed. She even went so far as to give his stomach a pat, and he flinched when she touched him.

"I think she likes you," Hana said, giving him an impy smile. Her face was upside down over his as she leaned forward.

He returned her gaze with a lift of his heavy eyelids.

"Lucky me…"

Hana laughed.

"Then again, my aunt's a notorious flirt. Hence why she's fifty and unmarried, even though she changes boyfriends like her underwear. She'd only break your heart, Tai."

They spoke openly about her aunt's liberal loving because the subject of their gossip wasn't in the apartment, for reasons that only added to Mlle. Livry's reputation as an incurable bachelorette. Apparently, what had been discussed among Mr. Kurosawa, Hana, and her _Tante_ Zsazsa while Tai had stared at the mess in her living room was how she would not be in Paris for the following three weeks. A 'patron' of hers, an Italian businessman fond of her art (and other assets), had invited her to spend her holiday at his Tuscan villa.

"And of course she accepted," Hana explained. "A free vacation in Italy with a rich man to wait on her hand and foot? I'm pretty sure she'd say only a fool would say no."

Her aunt's flight was early the next morning, and so to save the Kurosawas and Tai the trouble of her nocturnal presence (Hana claimed she suffered from bouts of insomnia), Mlle. Livry left them shortly after dinner to head over to the hotel where her Italian patron was staying.

"I should be back before you leave for Tokyo," she had told them, giving them all kisses goodbye—even Tai. "But don't be surprised if I'm not," she added with a wink.

"_Alors…_" Tai yawned, imitating the absent Mlle. Livry. "What's the plan for tomorrow?"

Hana began playing with his hair.

"Well… we can do the tourist thing and I can show you the popular sites in Paris, _or_ we can pay a visit to my old friends from school and ballet, which means I can show you off."

Tai blew out a puff of air, snickering.

"Before or after you explain to them what happened with Ryo Hiraki?"

She tapped a finger on his nose.

"Don't be a grump, Taichi," she said. "And don't underestimate your sexiness."

"I'm sexy, huh?"

It wasn't asked out of doubt. It was asked for the sole purpose of being reaffirmed as fact, as betrayed by the wicked flicker in his eye when he looked up at her, his grin wide and smug. He watched her eyes narrow just slightly, and he sped her reaction with a raise of his eyebrow, looking every bit the rascal he was.

"Oh, _yes_," she purred, chuckling as she lowered her head and touched her lips to his. Her mouth was warm, but her breath was still cool and minty from brushing her teeth. She rewarded his cheek with a few more kisses until he invited her to be more adventurous with her affection by introducing some tongue.

Her mouth parted in reply, and she moaned in surprise, probably—like him—discovering the novel pleasure of Frenching each other upside down. Her hands wandered away from his chest, up to his face, cupping over his ears, fingertips massaging the back of his head. Tai couldn't keep idle anymore. He sat up and eased her flat on the bed.

Before he could even angle south for another kiss, she planted her open hand on his chest and pushed him back.

"Tai," she said, a warning teetering on the tip of her tongue.

The sound of the bathroom faucet running magnified in his ears, making him aware that even though he and Hana were alone in the bedroom, Mr. Kurosawa was meters away in the bathroom, brushing his teeth.

"I heard him turn on his electric toothbrush less than ten seconds ago," he said. "That means we have roughly two minutes before he comes out."

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"You know down to the _second_ how long it takes my dad to brush his teeth?"

"No," he retorted, annoyed by her implication. "It's just an estimate." He paused, looking down at her. "Besides, why are you fighting this? Didn't you like it?"

"Well, of course I did," she replied. "But I'd rather not be sucking on your face when my dad exits the bathroom."

"You didn't have any problems when we made out in the study room at the university library… or in the restroom at the dance studio."

Hana colored in two distinct spots on her face.

"Well, my dad wasn't going to spontaneously pop out of nowhere at either of those instances," she argued. "It's not that I don't _want_ to, Tai. It's just…"

She never finished. Her father stepped out of the bathroom at that instant, and Hana quickly slipped out from under him before her father could wipe the steam from his fogged-up glasses. She didn't look back at Tai while she pulled out a pair of rolled-up air mattresses from a closet. Even as he helped her plug them in and shift them around in the room, she said nothing. It was only when the sheets had been fitted and the pillows thrown onto the airbeds, and Mr. Kurosawa was going around the apartment switching off lights, that Tai came up behind her and gently put an arm around her shoulders.

"Night, Han," he whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head lightly.

He didn't know she had smiled, her hand patting his forearm, lulled by the warmth of his chest on her back.

"_Bonne nuit_," she whispered back_, "mon soleil_."

xXx

They met on the steps of the façade of the _Palais Garnier_, which looked bleached white in the bright sunshine. Traffic in the area was light, the rumble of cars and buses broken sporadically by the shriek of a car horn. He held her hand as she paused before the famous opera house her late mother used to perform in, both their palms damp and sticking. Her free hand served as a visor while she scanned the loiterers on the steps for a quartet of familiar faces.

For his second day in Paris, the weather was temperate and inviting—perfect, really—and she had decided to wear a dress again. The skirt of it billowed in the breeze, sometimes dangerously close to revealingly, though Tai didn't notice. He was too busy staring open-mouthed at the squat, ornamented structure before him.

Her friends found them before she did.

"Hana!"

The cry of delight was unmistakably female. Before Hana had even turned to the sound of the voice, she was tackled with an embrace, both she and her embracer colliding into Tai who, thankfully, was solid enough on his feet to make sure none of them fell.

While the girls exchanged burbled, shrill greetings, Tai eyed the three others that joined their growing circle: two boys and another girl. If they paid him any attention, it went unnoticed. The three pairs of eyes were trained on his girlfriend, who was laughing so hard she was nearly in tears.

"Easy there, Han," Tai joked, rumpling her hair lovingly. "Don't faint."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she murmured, controlling her giggles. She weaved her fingers through his, clinging to him tightly as she calmed herself. He was glad of the gesture, glad that even though she had been swarmed by old friends, her reality was anchored by him.

"How'd you find us?" she asked her friends when she had recovered. "I swear I was looking for you for a straight ten minutes."

"Wasn't difficult," said the blonde who had embraced her first. "You told us to watch out for a puff of brown hair, and…" She pointed at Tai. "Well, here we are!"

"So that's what I am to your friends?" jested Tai, poking her in the ribs. "A hairball?"

Hana giggled.

"No, no." She paused and turned to her audience. "Guys, this is Taichi 'Tai' Kamiya." Her mouth thinned into a broad, toothy smile. "…_mon petit ami_."

The blonde pursed her lips.

"Ooh la la," she sang. _"Tu aies été trés occupé au Japon, oui, Han?"_

"_Tais-toi_," Hana laughed, rolling her eyes at the suggestive wink. "Anyway, Tai." She gestured at the girl leading the group of faces. "This is Céline Mortier, who has been my _lovely_ dancing buddy since I was five."

Céline did a poor mockery of a curtsy in front of Tai before accepting his handshake. She was a thin, wisp of a girl, with hair and coloring that condemned her to a life of being compared to a fine piece of china. Her hair was white-blond, extremely fine, and done up in a loose bun that sat like a nub on the top of her oval head. The clothes she wore suggested she had stepped right out of a fancy yacht party.

"And these are Lucas, Nina, and Enzo," Hana introduced. "Lucas and Nina used to be my neighbors. We all went to the same school, and Enzo is my former..." She chose her next words carefully, "… dancing partner in ballet."

Tai looked at the fellow teens before him and happily smiled in their company, his brown eyes squinting in the blinding rays of the sun. Lucas was perhaps the only person who could meet Tai's gaze without having to look up. His hair was a sandy brown, gelled into a spiky faux hawk. A pair of hazel eyes stared back from an abundantly freckled face. Tai took note of an embroidered insignia over the pocket of Lucas's navy blue polo shirt, the mark of a football club.

"Soccer fan?" he asked, almost teasingly.

Lucas wrinkled his nose a bit, shrugging as he played along.

"Who? _Moi_? Perish the thought." He laughed. "But, yeah. I'm a bit of an aficionado." He patted the badge on his polo affectionately before waving a hand in between him and Tai, gesturing at Tai's own shirt—the jersey for Japan's national team. "It's nice to meet a fellow hooligan. You're welcome to play a few games with me and my mates while you're in Paris, Tai. I'm sure Hana's bored you with ballet already."

"Hey!"

The outcry was uttered simultaneously by Céline and Hana, each girl giving Lucas a flick on the arm.

Nina stood beside, silently giving Lucas a gentle rub on the back while Hana and Céline scolded him. Her features were decidedly pointy—sharp nose, narrow jaw, fine chin, and she was also the tallest of the girls—no heels needed. The ends of her brown hair were tipped in a shocking shade of scarlet, a pair of feather earrings hidden beneath the dual-toned waves, and, unlike Hana and Céline, who were ambitiously thin, Nina had muscle—proud, defined muscle.

"_Enchantée_, Tai," she said in a low, almost masculine voice, as she shook his hand.

The last to greet Tai was Hana's former dancing partner, Enzo, who exchanged looks with him behind a pair of ebony-rimmed eyeglasses. He was garbed in black jeans, which did little to hide the fact that his legs were slightly bowed, and his light grey t-shirt bordered on being fitted, the sleeves tight across his biceps. His hair was thick, black and tousled constantly by a restless hand.

Tai did his once over and tried not to look at him again. Enzo was damnably good-looking—as if he needed another fit, well-dressed, and handsome guy to upstage him. Tai already had that role filled in Japan, and it went by the name of Matt Ishida.

With introductions made, Céline offered to take them into the _Palais Granier_, insisting that it was only fair to catch up in the place Hana was purportedly destined to grace with her presence. On the way around the block to the visitor's entrance, Tai and Hana were separated. The girls hooked arms and fell behind the trio of boys leading the way.

Tai and Lucas resumed their initial conversation about soccer, discussing the positions they played for their school teams, their favorite players. Enzo only bobbed his head now and then, having nothing to share on the subject.

"Hana's incredibly dense about soccer," Lucas revealed, glancing over his shoulder at the girls chirping away behind them. "Nina brought her as often as she could to our school's games, but Hana would just sit in the bleachers and do her homework. As far as I know, she just thinks it's a bunch of guys on grass kicking a ball around—with the occasional gratuitous display of sweaty, shirtless young men."

"Well, I could say ballet is just a bunch of girls and guys in tights dancing weird on their tip-toes," Tai said. He tilted his head to his right, towards Enzo. "No offense."

Enzo smiled.

"None taken. I'm sure Hana's drilled you in some form or other on the physical demands of ballet." He paused, sideglancing Tai with a thin, omniscient smirk. "Or maybe she's had you experience it firsthand?"

"Well," said Lucas before Tai's eyes had narrowed, "it's Hana we're talking about here. And anyone who considers her a friend has done ballet at her behest." He shuddered as if recalling a nightmare.

"Boyfriends most of all," Enzo jeered, laughing afterwards.

They filed into the opera house, Enzo holding the door open as the girls passed through first. When Tai approached, the male dancer made as if to shut the door in his face but jerked the door back in time, giving Tai a playful smile.

"Almost had you there," he said, ignoring the obvious glare Tai threw at him. He had the nerve to come up to him and pat him on the back. "I have to keep you on your toes. Must be a reflex." He winked. "You know. Ballet and all."

Whatever form of retaliation Tai wanted to exact on Enzo's head was postponed. Hana reunited with him, snatching up his hand and taking off after Céline who happily led the way through the structure after they had paid for their admission.

If he thought the opera house where Hana danced in _The Sleeping Beauty_ was a marvel, then the _Palais Garnier_ was an architectural phenomenon. It was absurdly over-decorated, every surface of the walls and ceiling filigreed with gold or painted with the drifting, lusty bodies of Greek gods. Every inch of it was meticulously molded, the masonry exquisitely detailed to a dizzying extreme. It was overkill for his senses, and Hana breezed through the echoing halls, her feet clopping on the marble floors, like it was her home—familiar and banal.

It was only at the Grand Staircase did she and her friends take pause, the six of them standing at the landing where the two smaller steps melded into the main stair.

"_C'est incroyable, non?_" Hana whispered to him, strengthening her hold on his hand and leaning in. She looked up in the same direction as he, her eyes following what his eyes soaked in like sponges.

"Maybe if you're my grandparents."

Lucas's voice broke his shared reverie with Hana like a vase crashing on the floor in an otherwise silent room. They turned, Tai unable to suppress a grin at the jibe even though he was certain Hana was frowning visibly. Lucas was sitting down on the first step of the main staircase, his elbow propped on his knee and his chin in palm.

"You should see the stadiums when there's a soccer match. _That_'_s_ amazing. Not this. This is just… old… and fancy. Like my grandparents. Smells like them, too." He sniffed exaggeratedly and made a face.

Céline clucked her tongue.

"Don't listen to Lucas, the bore," she rebuked, wagging a finger at her friend before moving to the middle of the staircase. She raised her arms in the air and struck a pose, even though there were other tourists wandering the area. "And I don't know what he's talking about. Soccer matches are loud and the stadium smells like sweaty men and beer." She twirled on her heel, practicing a pirouette, which was wobbly because of her wedge sandals.

Nina laughed and steadied Céline before joining Lucas on the step, sitting beside him and running a hand affectionately through his faux hawk.

"I think Tai is allowed some wonder. He's the stranger in a strange land," said Nina, prying her eyes away from Lucas to glance at Tai over her shoulder. "What do you think of it so far, Tai?"

Tai pretended to think a moment, though most of the time was used trying to figure out how to translate his words into French. He wanted to humor his girlfriend.

"_C'est…_um... _c'est beau?_" He hugged Hana to himself, a broad grin on his face. "_Comme ma petite amie!_"

Hana snorted with laughter, endlessly amused by his terrible accent.

"He speaks French!" crowed Enzo, with a sonorous clap of his hands while everyone else replied with some variation of "Aww," at Tai's clumsy use of language. The male dancer was leaning against the railing, almost sitting on it.

"But of course," Hana replied proudly, a fist on her hip. "What do you take me for?"

With a laugh, Enzo folded his arms and left his spot by the rail, coming towards Hana and Tai. He passed Céline and paused a few moments to give her a balance check as she continued to practice ballet forms in public, his hand gently pressing her torso as she bent forward.

His feet brought him before the couple, heels abreast each other, toes angled out in first position. He regarded Tai and Hana with that same secretive smirk before following Céline's example. With a flourish, he took a grand step backwards, one arm lifted in the air, the other curved in front of his puffed out chest.

With a grin, he slowly extended his hand to Hana, who understood the theatrical display well enough.

She offered him a mock pout, her hand loosening around Tai's fingers.

"For old times' sake, Han," Enzo added with a wink.

With a subtle roll of her eyes, she consented. She broke from Tai and accepted Enzo's hand, and together they made way down the staircase to the grand foyer, their bodies suddenly charged with a different energy—one that was controlled, liquid, and effortless.

"Enzo is such a show-off," Céline muttered, dropping her arms and plopping her bottom on the step beside Nina. Without turning her head, she waved Tai over. "Come on, Tai. Join us. I don't bite." She patted the spot beside her with the flat of her hand, and he eased next to her, the beauty of the venue no longer the focus of his vision.

He stared fixedly at Hana and Enzo as they began dancing.

"So… am I missing something?" he asked, idly scratching an imaginary itch on his head.

"Hmm?" Céline turned to look at him but saw that he wasn't staring at her. Her periwinkle eyes shifted to the former dancing duo. "Oh. You mean between Hana and Enzo?" She shrugged a shoulder. "They dated, yes. But it was… What would you call it? Umm… puppy love? Yes, that's it. They were dancing partners, which, as you can see, requires a lot of touching—and trust, of course. But, you know, kids that young. Girls think that just because a boy puts his hand on your waist that he loves you—when it's just hormones."

"I remember them being very good together," Nina reminisced, absorbed in watching Hana and Enzo dance. She wasn't the only one, either. Even Lucas, who professed to deplore ballet, was paying attention, and the other tourists that had been wandering the opera house were pausing to admire the impromptu show.

"They still kind of _are_ good together," Lucas remarked, almost reluctantly.

Tai issued some noncommittal noise from the back of his throat, trying his best not to express disapproval. He admired Hana's touchy-feely nature, and he had never been bothered by her showing affection to other friends who were boys. In Japan, when she danced with her partner, Max, who was three years her senior, he could have cared less. But he didn't know Enzo, and the way he handled his girlfriend bordered on just a dash too friendly.

He felt coldly distant from her in that moment, like a spectator mesmerized by the unexpected charm of a busker on the street, enchanted by the loveliness of a stranger. He followed the movement of hands, how Enzo delicately held Hana's waist when she twirled on her toes, how the tips of his fingers teased the skin of her inner thigh when he sustained her arabesque. Hana didn't seem to mind that she was flashing them or strangers with peeks of her underwear. Her eyes were half-hooded under fluttering eyelids, closing fully at times. She was in a trance.

Her body responded to every gesture of her partner. His fingers trailing up the curve of her arms, his nose gliding up the rise of her neck. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, their chemistry compelling, exuding out of them like the sweat on their faces. Both Nina and Céline fanned themselves with their hands as they stared, awestruck.

Hana and Enzo were both panting, their skin glistening, when they ended their _pas de deux_ and playfully honored their spectators with a curtsy and bow.

"Bloody show-offs, the lot of you," Céline greeted in good humor when Enzo and Hana made their way back up the stairs to them, no longer walking hand-in-hand.

"You want a go, too, Mlle. Mortier?" Enzo joked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Bah. Save it for someone who cares," she replied, sticking her tongue out at him.

"Like your cousin?" He laughed.

Céline rolled her eyes.

"Like Catherine would take two glances at you."

The mention of the name ran like a little shock of electricity through Tai. He straightened his back, alert, and was about to ask Céline what the last name of her cousin was when Hana sat herself on his lap.

"What'd you think?" she said, still breathing exhaustively through her nose. She licked off the sweat collecting on her upper lip. He opened his mouth to speak but was having trouble finding words. His mind had been focused on asking about Catherine.

"This must be boring you, huh?" she asked, amending her question.

"N-No," he fumbled. "You were great."

She smiled thinly, forcibly.

"Don't lie, Tai," she said softly. She pressed her hand to his cheek, her fingers tickling his hairline. "You weren't paying attention to me. Your eyes were on Enzo, making sure he didn't pull a jerk move."

He feigned surprise, though it comforted him to know she was aware of his presence, even if it seemed like the only person on her mind was her dancing partner.

"How'd you know that?" he asked.

She simpered.

"I could feel your stare on the back of my head, you goof." She took his hand and turned it over, palm up, her fingers pressed to his wrist. "I could sense your pulse in the air, growing angrier with every passing second. Your jealousy was pretty obvious, at least to me."

His eyebrows progressively wrinkled, whatever sense of assurance he felt being replaced with a mild resentment. He was mindful of his tone.

"You make me sound like the bad guy," he said, playing it off as a joke.

Hana's smile dropped like a lead weight.

"No. I didn't mean it like that, Tai, I—"

She was interrupted when he ran his thumb over her flushed lips, the fingers he had beneath her chin wanting to pull her mouth closer. He checked the urge.

"Let's talk later," he said instead. Hana nodded obediently and got off his lap and sat on the step in front of him, placing herself by Céline's feet.

His fingers curled briefly, his mind debating whether or not to take Hana's repositioning as a slight or an agreement. He knew he had upset her, cutting her off in the way he did—seductively, using his touch to get what he wanted from her: silence, but he had only done it because she had replied to his lies with one of her own. Even if she denied it a thousand times, it didn't change the fact that the only thing she read off of him was negative energy—jealousy, anger, a throbbing, excitable pulse. He wondered if he would ever be able to connect with her the way she had with Enzo, how they had moved fluidly in the charged stillness, invisible sparks igniting in between the narrow gaps separating their bodies.

While it was true they had moved beyond the superficiality of kissing hands, he hadn't received the impression that he had struck the same chords in her that she had struck in him. There was still the fist or forearm against his chest, pushing him back, engendering space between.

There was none of that restraint when she had danced with Enzo. She had been entirely uninhibited, answering his touch with her touch, welcoming each advance, re-inviting every stroke and feel with one of equal passion.

He looked at her, her back facing him, her ears listening to the continued repartee between Enzo and Céline. Catherine's name was tossed around like a ball in a game of monkey in the middle, making it impossible for him to catch the threads of their discussion. The nape of Hana's neck was exposed, the hair pulled away in another messy braid. Its whiteness behind the stark darkness of her hair beckoned him like a light in a tunnel. Without hesitation, his fingertips made contact with the surface of her body, the small area of flesh smooth and hot under his touch. He waited for her to register the invasion of her space, his silent, unannounced apology.

She did not turn around, and he was tempted to remove his hand, but the instant his fingers began to lift, she blindly reached up and held him back. Her hold was tight at first, unyielding, but gradually, she released him, leaving it to him to decide whether or not to remain where he was.

His mind was made without skipping a heartbeat.

He stayed.

xXx

**A/N: So...? What'd you all think? A good start for Tai and Hana or a bad one? Their time in Paris will be split up into three parts, each centering on a specific aspect; and the chapters on Paris will be the only "structure" this collection of stories will have.**

**Also, just let me know if the French gets annoying, or if you'd like me to provide translations. My own knowledge of French is rather elementary. Sometimes I wish Hana knew Spanish. It would make my life so much easier. XD**

**Thank you in advance for your feedback! But, most of all, thank you, always, for reading!**


	2. Chocolate with Wasabi

**A/N:**** Happy Valentine's Day! Not sure if any of you remember the wasabi prank from Chapter 12 of ****_The Center of Everything_****, but it comes up again (as you can tell by the title). There will be another author's note at the end discussing future updates, but more on that later.**

**For now, enjoy!**

**(Also, the writing is a bit… er…****_lacking_****. I've been tackling other writing projects at the moment, so I apologize for its mediocrity.)**

xXx

_- Chocolate with Wasabi -_

xXx

**S**he started seeing red. Lots of it. Originally, it came in moderate sprinkles—a handful of heart-shaped balloons here and there, a few pink posters advertising chocolates scattered about the mall, all of them captioned with sweet reminders to express unconditional adoration via the only ways acceptable: through the purchases of commercial products manufactured _en masse_.

Soon, however, and at an exponential rate, shopping centers dripped with the crimson color, and the irresistible scent of chocolate lingered in the air like a delicious, eye-crossing fog. Aside from being _the_ quintessential hue for passion and love, red also happened to be a color of warning. Despite never having celebrated a Valentine's Day in Japan, Hana took the city-wide hint readily enough. The holiday was fast approaching, and, unlike the other girls who giggled to themselves about what they planned on getting their crushes or boyfriends, Hana had no idea what to get Tai.

At present, she stared fiercely at an arrangement of shirts in a boutique, as if, by stare alone, the perfect selection would levitate straight to her. She had gone to the mall with Kari, Yolei, and Sora, as her cluelessness over the celebration of the international holiday had left her in a desperate want of female company. It hadn't escaped her notice, either, that all three girls had been acquainted with her boyfriend much longer than she had. It was imperative that she ask the necessary questions in order to make the most of her first Valentine's Day in Japan. The queries launched out of her mouth poured out like a chocolate fountain.

"So… what?" she had asked. "Matt, Ken, T.K., and Tai. They just… what? Spend that day waiting for us to shower them with gifts and kisses?"

The national customs pertaining to the holiday were a strange shift from the Valentine's Days she was used to witnessing in France. There, the holiday was not restricted to one of the sexes, nor was it largely limited to offerings of chocolate. Men and women alike gifted each other much in the way one saw in the movies—with romantic cards, teddy bears, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, flowers, red lingerie.

"Pretty much," had been Yolei's blunt answer. "What's not to get?"

Sora had offered her a kinder and more thorough explanation.

"Valentine's Day in Japan is typically in the hands of the girls, Hana," she had explained. "We get our male friends and significant others chocolates and maybe another small gift, and the act will be reciprocated in a month's time, on March 14th, White Day."

"And we bypassed every shop selling chocolate and went to a bookstore to get a cookbook, _why?_" Hana had asked in reply. It only confused her further that her friends willfully ignored the gift-wrapped confections. Why else would they be so heavily advertised and available, painted in glaring shades of red, if not to be bought by every girl that walked by?

Her lacking insight was gladly provided by Kari.

"_Homemade_ chocolates are considered particularly special," she had said, "which is why we reserve them for our boyfriends." While she had been speaking, she had tapped the cookbook in her arms—the one they had purchased when they had gone to the bookstore. Its glossy cover winked reflected light at Hana, blocking half of the title that had already been memorized: _A Love Affair with Chocolate, Famous French Sweets and the Stories Behind Them_.

The reminder that they'd head to Sora's home after the mall trip to prepare the chocolates only made Hana groan internally. It was bad enough that she didn't know what else to get her boyfriend. What worsened her situation was the universal truth that she couldn't cook or bake to save her life. She still vividly remembered nearly destroying her kitchen the last time she tried her hand at making a dessert. Her _bûche de Noël_ ended up being a _bûche de merde_.

She rubbed her forehead and muttered a French oath under a breath. Behind her, Kari and Yolei shared what they each had bought for their respective beaus—the former purchasing a hat and the latter a scarf. A ways off was Sora, perusing a stack of shirts, most options she pulled out being, firstly, slim-fitted, and secondly, some various shade of grey.

With a grunt, Hana refocused her attentions, peering yet again at the display of clothing and sighing dramatically when she happened upon no epiphany.

"Everything okay?"

A hand touched the one that had been fiddling with her headband. The white arch had been wiggled back and forth so many times in the past hour that Hana swore a bald spot had been rubbed straight through her dark brown hair.

"I don't know what to get Tai, Kari," Hana confessed hurriedly. "I know we're not supposed to get our guys anything extravagant or expensive for this holiday, but even little things. I… I don't know." She was tempted to reach up and touch her headband again, but a weight landed on her left shoulder. She turned to the side to see Yolei leaning an elbow on her.

"You're kidding, right?" she said, an incredulous eyebrow raised. The weight of her limb caused Hana to pitch slightly to the left. "You're usually really good about knowing what to get him."

"When there's no occasion, yes," Hana was loath to admit, regaining balance.

She wasn't a stranger when it came to giving Tai presents. It had become a habit of hers to leave notes for him scattered about his apartment on a near daily basis. She would comment on how he needed to do his laundry, or hide a wish of good luck in his school books if she knew he had an upcoming exam. Most he threw away, which she didn't mind. They were silly, passing thoughts on paper. Occasionally, however, she'd find some accrued on his desk, taped to the wood, the paper soft from wear and fondness, the ink of her messages bleeding greasy shadows.

Aside from the gifts of written words, Hana had had no issue giving him actual tokens of her affection: a video game he had been anticipating since the announcement of its development (which she had hid under his mattress, thus requiring Tai to search for it), a hoodie bearing the name and crest of his favorite soccer club, gift cards to the restaurants he frequented—all of them met with gratitude and kisses (minus the first, since he had uprooted his entire apartment in pursuit of it).

"But when one's attached," Hana continued, her doubts actualizing on her tongue, "I feel like he expects certain things, and I don't want to disappoint him if I get it wrong. And, well, this will be our first Valentine's Day in Japan, and I just want it to be—"

"_Perfect?_"

Both Kari and Yolei had finished Hana's sentence in unison, the joining of their voices making the word unnervingly sonorous. They grinned unabashedly at her, bearing the looks of individuals who had suffered the same apprehensions and had overcome them. In truth, Hana wasn't aiming for a 'perfect' Valentine's Day. The word she had planned on using was 'fun.'

"Yeah," she murmured.

Sora afterwards returned to them, her purchase swinging buoyantly in her hand. She was surprised to find that one of their group had yet to put on the accomplished smile of a successful day at the mall, and Hana's predicament was explained in brief.

"Hana," Sora said, like a mother pitying the fruitless efforts of her child. The French brunette reluctantly pulled her eyes away from the rows of folded shirts. "Don't stress too much about this. This is Tai, remember?" She set her shopping bag on the ground and touched Hana gently on her other shoulder. "Tai, who planted that wasabi bomb on your sushi plate? Tai, who put fake spiders in your locker on Halloween? Tai, who gets a kick out of poking your nose like this?" She demonstrated, tapping the point of Hana's nose with a finger and pushing just slightly so that her nostrils widened and her eyes crossed. The girls giggled.

"Yeah, Hana," Yolei heartened, lifting her elbow off her shoulder. "My first Valentine's Day with Ken was…" She grimaced, biting her bottom lip as she turned her gaze upward to the ceiling. "… _really_ bad. Turns out, he's allergic to strawberries, and I gave him chocolate coated strawberries. It was a disaster."

"At least you didn't have your older brother chaperoning you on yours," Kari dourly contributed. "The most T.K. and I did on that day was hold pinkies."

Yolei sputtered out a laugh, tipping her head in agreement.

"Poor you."

"Exactly."

For Hana's sake, they stopped by a few other shops to see if she would find anything suitable for her boyfriend. None came to any avail. Hana had come very close to buying a pink polo from a clothing boutique, but the girls had wildly cautioned her not go anywhere near rose-colored apparel. Her excuse had been that Tai desperately needed some variety to his wardrobe—which consisted mostly of athletic shorts and t-shirts—but her friends advocated otherwise.

"He'd sooner cut his hair than be caught wearing anything pink, Hana," they told her. She was then advised to consider his 'male pride.'

After another agonizing hour of failure, Hana decided to call it quits. Her other present for Tai would have to be bought on her own time. They needed to get to Sora's to start making the chocolates. That, and they would be video-chatting with Mimi during preparation, and they had to be mindful of the time difference between Tokyo and New York City.

On the way out the mall, they passed one store that was unusually empty of customers. The surrounding kiosks and shops were full of potential consumers, the lot of them rummaging through racks and shelves of clothing, shaking boxes of chocolates, considering items on display with a discerning eye and a forefinger and thumb cupping the chin. Hana paused before the store, her green eyes roving over the boxes and trinkets arranged in squat towers at its front entrance. She noticed the store wasn't entirely empty. A few boys were inside, testing a product, giggling amongst themselves. Hana watched them unblinkingly, her mouth parting into a broad grin as the aha-moment she had been waiting for lit like fireworks in her brain.

"_Geniál!_" she cried, striking a finger into the air. She bolted off into the store just as Kari, Yolei and Sora were about to exit the mall, the only thing any of them heard being a victorious:

"_I finally know what the get Tai!_"

xXx

Hana Kurosawa was grossly nauseated. Her nervousness over the romantic holiday was getting the better of her as she sat at a picnic table in the park. It was the chosen rendezvous point where everyone would exchange Valentine's Day gifts, and she had come relatively early, sharing the table with but three other people: Izzy, Cody, and Davis. Ironically, the three boys happened to be the only ones without significant others around to give them gifts. Her legs bounced up and down rapidly as she sat on the top of the table, making the bench seat rattle and forcing the rest of her companions to forego sitting on the bench and join her on the tabletop.

Cody sat beside her, and next to him sat Izzy, his laptop computer resting on his knees. A large bag of candy-coated chocolates occupied the majority of Cody's lap, and every now and then Koushiro's typing fingers would halt and blindly dig into the bag to grab a handful, the Hida boy meanwhile taking a few of the sweets in his fingers as he looked on with Izzy at the computer screen.

Davis reclined behind her, leaning against her back, grumbling about how he hated the holiday and how he wished the others would finally arrive so he could move on and celebrate his eternal singleness in classic bachelor style. When Hana was in no mood to listen to him talking, she encouraged him to also fill his mouth with the candy. Graciously, Davis would oblige her.

The chocolates themselves had been a gift from Mimi to Izzy, just one of several she had sent him in a Valentine's Day care package. When Hana had stopped by the Izumi household to pick up some computer programming assignments for her next tutoring session, she saw the care package in its entirety, the whole of it laid bare on the family dining table—all red sparkles and glitter.

Notable items included a teddy bear dressed in a t-shirt that read, "_Somebody in New York City Loves Me!_", a box of chocolate bon-bons handmade by a famous French _chocolatier_, and a five pound bag of candy-coated chocolate hearts, their sugar shells painted red, pink, and white and bearing nerdy pick-up lines such as, '_You defragment my life,' _and '_You had me at Hello World_.' There had also been a chocolate bar, and printed on its wrapper was:

'_0100100100100000011011000110 1111011101100110010100100000 011110010110111101110101'_

"It's 'I love you' in binary code," Izzy had begrudgingly translated in light of Hana's genuine curiosity. She replied with a badly contained snort of laughter and a teasingly sung, "_Comme c'est mignon!_" _How cute!_

A tap on her shoulder drew Hana away from the recent memory, and her heart nearly stopped when she turned and saw Davis leaning his chin on her shoulder, jutting his lower lip out as he peered at the items in her hands.

"What'd you get Tai?" he pried baldly.

"Just, uh, some…" She cleared her throat, stifling a chuckle as she remembered exactly what she had concocted for Tai's enjoyment. "…_chocolate_ bon-bons," she answered, cracking a smile. She held the grin for a long time, the corners of her mouth progressively spreading farther apart. Davis narrowed his eyes on her, and even Cody and Izzy glanced at her with slightly raised eyebrows.

While she had been at Sora's helping make the Valentine's Day treats, Hana had been lucky enough to be struck with another eureka. She had been looking in the refrigerator for some cream and had chanced upon a tube of wasabi paste shelved in the side door.

"Well, hello there, friend," she had cackled aloud, lifting the container out.

Wondering why earth she was laughing to herself, Kari, Yolei, and Sora all turned to her, their movement also allowing Mimi, who was watching them from the web camera on Sora's laptop, to be an onlooker. Hana proudly waved the tube of wasabi paste back at them, her scheme visible in the wicked glimmer of her green eyes.

"Well, that's certainly cause for trouble," commented Mimi.

Sora's forehead creased.

"Are you certain that's a good idea, Hana? I mean, I know Tai pranked you ages ago, but do you really think that's necessary?"

Hana raised her hands in the air, her reply but a gesture of indifference.

"What's the worse that could happen, Takenouchi?" she parried. "I'm only going to rig one of the chocolate truffles. Everything else will be normal. Besides, what's a little romance without some spice, hmm?"

The doctored chocolate bon-bon was marked with a little white dot to differentiate it from the others, and it sat conveniently at the top of the batch in the cellophane bag that held it. Her other gift for Tai was in a tote bag under the picnic table, to be brought out only when the wasabi bomb had been planted and some form of recompense would be due.

"And exactly what sort of mischief do you have planned for him this evening?" Izzy probed, drawing Hana from her crafty daydreams. He sounded like her father.

"Oh, never you mind that, Koushiro," Hana cooed, waving him off. "Suffice it to say that revenge is sweet. Or will be, in my case."

The others arrived soon after, and couples broke off to different areas of the park to exchange gifts in private. Tai approached her casually, his hands in his jeans' pockets, a silly smile on his face. His brown eyes were bright with anticipation. Her stomach felt twisted in a knot, and her heartbeat thumped crazily, like the wings of a panicked bird locked in a cage. Without a word, she jumped off the picnic table, grabbed her tote bag and took his hand, eagerly leading him away to an open space in the center of the park.

"You sure you don't want to sit or anything?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. He glanced around them, taking note of their other friends who had situated themselves in less conspicuous places.

"No, no," Hana insisted, speaking as if she were out of breath. "I want to do this here." She set her bag on the grass beside their feet and raised her gift of sweets to him in offering, the crinkling, petite bag resting in her cupped hands. Her jaw clenched as she waited for him to react, expecting him to examine the contents, but he just looked at her, stuck in an emotive state between impressed and amused.

"They're homemade," she added, her nerves unable to keep her from talking. "And, no, they're not poisoned. I had Sora and Mimi and Yolei and Kari help me out so that they didn't turn out disgusting, so hopefully they'll be to your tastes. And even if they aren't, I'll eat them because they're chocolate and I'm French, and I grew up on a diet consisting largely of bon-bons and fattened duck liver."

He chuckled lightly and touched her mouth with his index finger.

"Hana," he said, leaning forward to meet her eye level. She blushed as she met his stare, the warmth emanating from his eyes traveling in waves straight under her skin. "I'm sure they're fantastic. Calm down." He withdrew his finger, and her lips curled over her teeth, fighting the urge to continue gabbing her worries away. "Now," Tai began anew. "Can I try one?"

"Of course."

She untied the bag, her fingertips slippery with perspiration. She saw his hand already reaching into it, and on a reflex, she swatted it away.

"Sorry," she murmured, in response to the eyebrow he arched at her. "I, uh, I just want to feed it to you. Can't I feed it to you?"

"Okay, but you didn't have to slap my hand," he grouched.

Delicately, she plucked her wasabi bon-bon out of the bag, the chocolate coated sphere snug between her thumb and pointer finger. Her excitement coursed through her in jolty, trembling bursts, and it took every ounce of her willpower to keep her hand from shaking as she brought the sweet closer to Tai's mouth.

He bit. She nearly choked trying to dam her laughter. Her eyes widened in anticipation, glittering with mischievous glee, when his chewing mouth stopped, the jaw fixed in a crick, and the eyes bulged.

She hadn't even doubled over with her first lung-busting guffaw when her laughing mouth was checked, and the piece of chocolate with wasabi was promptly, with impeccable aim, spat back at her face.

Her entire body cringed, petrified in its disgust, her hands curled into claws over her chest, as she felt the warm, wet, chunky slew whip across her nose, followed quickly by a burning sensation in her left eye.

She shrieked.

"What the hell, Taichi!" she screamed, hands flying to her face. "You got it in my freaking eye!"

"What!" he shouted, followed by more spitting at the ground. "What the hell _me?_" _Spit. Spit. Spit._ "What the hell is wrong with _you_?" _Spit._ "You gave me a freaking wasabi bomb!"

Hana ignored him and blindly ran off to find the closest water fountain to flush the wasabi paste from her eye. She was unaware that Tai had raced after her, the scathing bite of wasabi on his tongue also requiring him to find water and to find it _fast_.

They happened to reach the nearest fountain at the same time, Tai's longer legs allowing him to catch up with her, and they roughly spent the next five minutes asserting claim over the oasis—his head and hair butting into her space as she tried to splash water at her eye, her elbow digging into his side as she tried to nudge him out. Neither of them attained much relief to either of their ailments. The only thing they succeeded in doing was thoroughly drenching the other in ice cold water from the waist up.

"You're awful," Hana said, quivering from the cold. She glared at him from under the wet curtain of her hair, noticing the way his shirt clung to his lean frame, the rivulets of water dripping down the defined sinew of his arms. She licked the drops of water on her upper lip and shivered.

"Right back at you," Tai replied. There was a pause, the echoes of their petty fight mixing with the sounds of their exhausted panting. Hana could see and hear the rest of their friends coming toward them, no doubt wondering what had happened. She sputtered a shaky giggle, hugging her arms tighter to keep her teeth from chattering.

"Come here, you goof," she heard Tai chuckle, accompanied by an arm being wrapped around her shoulders. His clothes were chill and damp, but he himself was sufficiently warm, and she unfolded the arms across her chest and hugged him tightly, savoring the subtle shake of his chest as he laughed with her.

Afterwards, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin and parted her hair away from her face, checking to see if the wasabi he had spit at her caused any damage.

"You know I'm going to get you back for this," he teased, giving her a poke in the nose.

Hana pouted while absentmindedly drawing circles over his heart.

"But I already have a peace offering prepared," she whined.

He rested his forehead against hers, tantalizing her by keeping his mouth just a hair's width away from her own.

"Oh, do you, now?" he asked. A snicker rumbled from the back of his throat.

"Not _that_ kind of peace offering, Taichi," Hana thwarted, poking him in the shoulder. She eased away and took his hand, leading him back to the tote bag she had left in the middle of the park.

"But I think you'll enjoy it all the same."

xXx

"_Think fast, Koushiro!_"

Before Izzy could even turn around, a yellow, foam ball pelted him in the side of the head—for the tenth time. It was quickly followed by the click of a toy gun being reloaded and another hit to his cranium.

Hana sat comfortably on the loveseat with Sora, Yolei, and Kari, the four of them sharing the leftover chocolates from the original batch they had made. They watched, like viewers entranced by a wildlife documentary, as Hana's boyfriend continued firing foam balls at their resident computer genius, giggling like a schoolgirl throughout.

After the disaster with the chocolate wasabi truffle, Tai had announced that he'd be heading back to his apartment to change into dry clothes, and Hana had invited the rest of their friends to join them. Valentine's Day was, after all, also about friendship, and what better way to end the evening than chatting with friends and eating chocolate?

A quick walk back to the Kamiya apartment, a swift change of attire, and five minutes later, Tai was happily ducking about his living room, putting Hana's peace offering to repeated use as he barraged his guests with foam ammo.

By the time Izzy felt the brunt of Tai's childish attacks for the twentieth time, his temper finally flared, and he shut his laptop computer and demanded Tai surrender his toy gun.

"Screw that, Izumi," Tai gruffly replied, hitting Izzy square in the forehead with a perfectly aimed headshot.

The other boys attempted an intervention, but Tai had grown attached to his weapon of choice and peppered anyone who approached with a hail of plush balls. Eventually, the situation got so bad that Matt, Izzy, Davis, Cody, Ken and T.K. were stuck clustered together behind the living room sofa while Tai kept vigil over his territory, strutting imperiously as the toy gun rested on his shoulder.

"Well, I have to hand it to you, Hana," Kari said. "You got my brother a gift that suits him perfectly."

"Ugh. At whose expense?" Yolei moaned. "Ken and the other guys haven't budged from their spot behind the couch in the past fifteen minutes." She cupped her hands around her mouth. "Valentine's Day is _not_ about _hiding like wimps!_"

"_SHH!_" Davis hissed, popping his head out behind the side of the sofa. "We're plotting here!" He retreated in time to dodge a foam ball that would have walloped him on the head.

"You've created a monster, Hana," Sora murmured behind a hand.

The aspiring ballerina laughed merrily and stood up, passing the boys sheltered behind the couch and reaching into the tote bag she had left by the front door. A few seconds later, and Tai was hit smack in the gut with a piece of spongy ammo. He stared aghast, firstly, at his fake injury, and secondly, in the direction it had come from. Hana stood smugly by the sofa, blowing a breath over the nozzle of another copy of his toy.

"Here, Matt," she said, flippantly tossing the plastic toy to the blond.

The budding musician gladly reloaded the gadget and jumped out of hiding, punching Tai with a smattering of foam balls before he regained cover behind the loveseat. Despites the risks, Matt raised his head over the top of the piece of furniture, accepting the kiss of good luck that Sora gladly bestowed on him. Encouraged, he dared to venture out further, his blue eyes narrowing on his target.

"How could you?" Tai squealed, looking to Hana as she sauntered back to her seat. His arm was raised over his head, ineffectively blocking the shots from his enabled foe.

Hana stared back at him coolly, ignoring the rapid sequence of _pop! pop! pop!_ as Matt fired away behind them. She crossed her legs.

"You really think I'd get you one of those without getting one myself?" she returned, throwing him a look. "They were pretty cheap, too. I've got two more in my tote."

The news spurred the rest of the boys into action, the mob of them clamoring for the remaining toys. Izzy managed to claim one, and Davis succeeded in grabbing the other. Together, they did not hesitate to put the devices to immediate use. Each of them loaded their weapons to capacity, and Davis cried out, "_Eat foam, _senpai!_" _before he and Izzy unleashed a maelstrom of cushy yellow balls.

An hour later and the state of the Kamiya living room resembled something short of a ball pit at a video arcade. The boys involved in the game were in need of replenishing their energy, and so they spent their temporary truce lazily, those in relationships allowing themselves to be fed by their girlfriends. Those without—Cody, Izzy, and Davis—were busy using the lull as an opportunity to tinker with one of the toy guns, trying to repurpose its cheap plastic make for optimum firing power. Hana had gone into the kitchen to get a glass of water and was filling her cup in the sink when she felt a weight settle around her shoulders and a warmth cover her back. The brush of a familiar face beside her ear and the tickle of unruly hair on her neck followed.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Hana," he said, kissing his smile onto her cheek. She giggled and tilted her head to the side to look at him, their noses brushing. There was a smear of chocolate on the corner of his mouth.

She laughed and licked her thumb before wiping it away.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Taichi."

xXx

**A/N: Aw, how cute! (At least, I hope it was?) I just couldn't do anything too sappy for a Valentine's Day themed one-shot, so you get pranks and other shenanigans.**

**Anywho… Okay, folks. The next 'one-shot' (more like two/possibly three-shot) queued up for this project is a heavy-hitter. It deals with a certain rock star's and tennis player's break-up and the hell that breaks loose because of it. With that said, do you find it too soon for me to post it? Or would you rather get a few more fluffy/funny one-shots first? Because I'm certain that some of the things that happen in this next one-shot will be off-putting for some of you. It's just… it's just not pretty. Let's leave it at that. It's like Chapter 27 of ****_The Center of Everything _****but times ten. It's just… REALLY BAD.**

**If the general consensus is that you all trust me ****_completely _****and don't care, I'll commence with its posting. Otherwise, I'll put it on hold until you get sick of the fun and fluffy.**

**Once again, thanks for reading! :D**


	3. Dissent: Part I

**A/N: All right. For starters, this little episode is depressing (and long). There is angst and drama and booze and scandalous things and OOC moments… and… yeah. **

**Just as a disclaimer of sorts... Whatever you see of Matt, Tai, Sora, and Hana during this mini-story is not a direct representation of how I feel about them. I love all of their characters, and I'm not trying to villainize anybody. In short, people have weaknesses. People make mistakes. That is all. **

**And to spare you all pure, unadulterated torture, I have chosen to split this into multiple parts. The first part focuses on Hana and Matt; the second on Tai and Sora. Does that arrangement suggest anything? Oh, dear… **

xXx

_- Dissent -_

_(Part I)_

xXx

"**S**ora and Matt broke up."

A long pause came from Hana's end of the conversation. The phone in her grasp was slick from the sweat leaking out of her palms. She stared at the floor in shock, as if a glass of milk had just spilled over her feet. Through the receiver, Tai breathed steadily, patiently, on his side, but not naturally so. There was static in his exhales, interference crackling in his lungs.

"_No_," she said, drawing the vowel out in disbelief. "The world ends when that happens, Tai."

"No, Han," Tai replied sharply. "I just got off the phone with Sora. It's…" He inhaled. She imagined him wincing as he spoke. "…_over_."

"Well… what happened? Why in the hell would those two call it quits?"

He sighed into the receiver—deeply, regretfully. He could have tickled her cheek with the breath released. Instead, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

"I don't know, Han," he said. "I don't know…"

xXx

She watched him in class, captivated by the changes in his demeanor. He spoke even less, scribbled more in the margins of his notebook. The hair that had been gelled to messy perfection no longer gave the impression of disorder. It _was_ disorder. A sculpture of entropy, golden and spiked. The bags under his eyes were grey as dead flesh. He passed the class period like a shade.

Hana made these notes herself. She jotted her idle observations in between the empty lines of loose leaf paper, her scribbling hand making it appear as though she was paying attention to the teacher's lectures. A week had passed since word of Matt and Sora's break-up spread like a pandemic through the school, and Hana had collected about twenty pages' worth of Matt's altered behavior. She felt like her ex-boyfriend, the aspiring psychiatrist, who read people under the illusion of expertise since the alternative, verbal communication, was too risky, and actions couldn't lie.

She told Tai none of this.

Her boyfriend, though a third party, felt the separation of his best friends as keenly as the affected individuals. He pondered on it for days—still did, in actuality—and he questioned in Hana's company why it had happened. She never troubled providing him answers. Her capacity for understanding Matt and Sora's separation was the size of a needle point—sharp enough to break into curiosity but too feeble to breach the realm of reason.

It worked against Matt that Sora had contacted Tai first after their break-up, going so far as to explain the problem that had sealed their division. Tai's response, lightly put, was cataclysmic. He raged over how Matt could have dared to do what he had done to her, to Sora, of all people, who deserved no misfortune, who loved her friends and family generously to a fault. In his anger he'd pace his living room like a caged animal, and Hana recalled him cursing his (former) best friend with a colorful and _long_ list of names, accompanied by threats of so serious a caliber that even she had difficulty deciphering whether or not they were empty.

By the time Matt had called Tai to briefly tell him that he and Sora were no more, Tai, by that point, had already chosen a side. Hana had been with him when the phone call was made, and she had feared that he would launch a violent tirade through the receiver. Instead, he had snarled, "I know. She told me everything," before hanging up.

Such reactions formed the foundation of Tai's protracted grudge, the reminder of which was safely housed in Hana's brain. It was why she didn't dare mention Matt's name in Tai's presence, and also why her scrutiny of the budding musician was kept a secret.

Since the announcement of their split, Hana had kept her distance from both individuals involved. The memory of her own break-up with Ryo was still fresh, still stung when she allowed it to, and, wisely, she decided to await approach should either of the heartbroken feel inclined to confide in her. When neither did, she began to drop them hints that she was available for consultation. Sora was contacted solely via texts and short phone calls, as her tennis season made it impossible to contact her in person. With Matt, Hana had a significantly easier time.

The blond happened to be the only person in their (now divided) group of friends that Hana shared a class with that trimester. She needed to fulfill her Fine Arts credit and had enrolled in an Art History course. Matt was in the class by his own accord, whatever reason he had for enlisting unsaid, though Hana had a feeling that it began and ended with 'Sora Takenouchi.'

Regardless of everything Tai had told her concerning Matt—that he had made the mistake, committed the error that propelled his relationship with Sora into oblivion—Hana was partial to her own observations. Tai and Sora didn't see Matt the way she viewed him in class, how his posture sagged, how he reeked of despair. She hadn't forgotten how he had helped her with her own feelings towards Tai. The least she could offer him was her concern, especially when two of his confidants had left him to brave his anguish alone.

"Everything okay?" she'd ask him at the end of the period.

It was a habit of hers to offer physical gestures of understanding despite the receiving party's level of discomfort. She easily bestowed _bisous_ on the cheeks of her friends when she saw them. Hugs were doled out liberally from her arms. But she wasn't so oblivious as to not exercise caution during particularly prickly situations. In Matt's case, all she could muster was a delicate hand on his slumped shoulder.

He wouldn't even look at her, his face but a shadow beneath his blond hair. In a hollow voice, he'd reply, "Yeah," before promptly leaving.

Sometimes, because Hana would not be discouraged, she'd offer consolation through a quip—typically a French proverb. Some two weeks after their break-up, Hana told him, "_Après la pluie, le beau temps_."

He turned to her then, privileging her with the blink of his blue eyes. They gazed back into her face, shivering but bright even under the cover of his hair.

"What?" he said.

She sighed. The hand she had on his shoulder slid in the expectation of defeat.

"'After the rain, comes nice weather,'" she translated. "In other words, Matt, things will look up." She paused, hoping to see in his face the fluttering eyelids of gratitude or a warm hue of encouragement.

She saw neither and sighed, again.

"Take care of yourself, Matt."

The following day after class, as she ambled down an aisle between desk rows, Matt stood from his own desk in time to meet her.

"Hey, Hana," he said in greeting. He offered her the rare courtesy of a smile, fragile though it was, and she halted beside his desk. She blinked once and the smile vanished, making her wonder if she had imagined it.

"You doing better, Matt?" she asked, instinctively setting a hand on his broad shoulder. Even beneath the layers of his uniform, she could sense the muscle jerk at her touch. It was her cue to back off, but she remained, stubborn as her boyfriend.

"Yeah," he said, neither unconvincingly nor assuredly. She was tempted to raise a dubious eyebrow at him. Instead, she opted to stare at him until his nerve broke and the truth would be admitted, but he held her stare remarkably well, bearing it for a fraction of a second longer than usual—or appropriate.

"Okay," said Hana, smiling. She lowered her head and withdrew her hand, recommencing her exit out the aisle, but Matt stepped out at the same time. He managed to stop himself before he bumped into her hip.

"Go ahead, Hana," he murmured. He eased back and motioned for her to pass.

She nodded and walked by him, adjusting her headband on the way out as he followed her. The invitation to accompany her down the hallway went unspoken, though Hana expressed no intention of abandoning him as he fell into step beside her. She considered it an improvement that he was seeking company—or at least re-acclimating himself to the social structure of friendship.

Tai, Izzy, and Sora were spotted heading in their direction, and Hana gave them a wave, which only the former two returned. As if on cue, Hana reached out to Tai the moment their paths crossed. Their hands met halfway, and their reunion paused the flow of students, making a few passersby mutter complaints about the obstruction of traffic. She was mindful to keep the exchange of affection brief: the kiss, the sweet nothings mumbled between smirking lips and rubbing noses. She knew Matt was still behind her, and Sora, too, was behind Tai.

The tennis player's bright red hair could be seen on the border of Hana's peripheral vision. She stood behind Tai like a shadow, her sanguine eyes half-shielded under heavy eyelids, their gaze averted. A hand hugged an elbow in the quintessential pose of insecurity. She looked like she wanted to fade into the wall.

Hana felt strangely guilty standing safely in Tai's arms, her cheek resting against his wrinkled tie. A passing student rudely brushed past her.

"I'll see you later tonight?" Hana asked, lifting her gaze to him.

"Yeah," he replied, distractedly. His eyes flicked away from her face, pointing their stare over her head, his eyebrows bending on a sharp incline.

_Matt_.

Hana spun around, catching Matt's departure too late and finding in his stead a vacancy. Her green eyes switched back to Tai, who did not look at all surprised that Matt had fled. But when it was his turn to glance over his shoulder to check on Sora, the furrowed brow smoothed out, replaced with confusion.

Sometime during their loving embrace, Sora, too, had slipped away.

"This has to stop," Hana said, looking back and forth from Tai to Izzy.

"It's a logical fallacy," said Izzy dourly, stumped for a reason just like the rest of them. "I don't know if it can be helped."

Hana took Tai's hand and squeezed it, fixing him with a plea that begged him to mend what should have never been broken. He only looked back at her, his stare thoughtful but unwavering, and shocked her when his lips set into a hard, grim line.

He said nothing.

xXx

The following day, after the last bell had rung and the hallways filled with the mad rush of students, Hana was amazed to find Matt loitering by her locker. He leaned his shoulder against the cold metal door, his guitar case in his grip.

As she approached, he scooted to the side to give her room, distancing himself a good two feet from her. She tried her best to look apathetic.

"Hey, Matt," she said, green eyes focusing on the knob of her lock.

His reply of, "Hey, Hana," was delivered long after the appropriate margin of conversational pause. Again, Hana checked the urge to peer at him suspiciously, though it became difficult when his silence continued, and she was forced to resort to meaningless pleasantries to wheedle his intentions out.

"How is everything?"

She waited a patient minute, which felt more like ten.

"Bad," he admitted, lowly. He leaned dejectedly against the row of lockers and ran a hand through his blond fringe. In the motion, Hana caught whiffs of his shampoo. His scent was clean, rejuvenating in the same way static shock was. Hana had to sniff in order to rid the sting of fragrance from her nose.

"I was…" He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. "I was wondering if I could… _talk_…"

His blue eyes shifted in her direction so suddenly that she jumped back when she met his gaze.

"… to you," he clarified.

Very slowly, Hana shut her locker, her green eyes scrutinizing him.

"About…?"

"Yeah," he said, never allowing her to finish. "I… I'm not ready to talk to Tai about it…" He frowned at some arbitrary spot on the floor. "…not that he'd listen, anyway."

Hana nodded subtly.

"Because of…?"

"Yeah." His tone turned curt. "Because of that."

"Okay, Matt. We can talk."

"Can we… tonight?"

Hana shook her head.

"No. Tai is coming over for dinner, but tomorrow, I can—after ballet practice, that is."

"Yeah, that's fine." He attempted nonchalance. "I've got practice with my band, too, anyway. We'll meet, say… at seven?"

"All right. Sure. Wh—"

"Thanks."

He gave her a forced smile before leaving, veering into the flow of students exiting the school and abandoning Hana to stand solo, heart palpitating, in his wake.

xXx

She crept up behind him while he was working on his homework at the coffee table in her living room. Her feet were tired and sore from her evening meeting with her trusty foot stretcher and her toes curled into the living room rug, thankful for its cushion. Silently, she kneeled and slipped her arms around his middle, resting her cheek on the warm slope of his curved back. His shirt smelled like their dinner: the pungent sweetness of salmon teriyaki.

A little smile spread over her lips when his hand covered those she had clasped around his torso, his touch warm and comforting.

In the distance, she could hear her father brushing his teeth in the bathroom, but otherwise, the apartment was silent.

"I'm meeting Matt tomorrow," she murmured, the words being kissed onto his shoulder blade.

Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation of his disapproval, pounding against her breastbone. He tightened his hold on her hands, and she knew he felt the change of pulse in the heart pressed to his spine. When she lifted her hand higher and planted it right over his chest, the pace at which it thumped matched her own.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Han."

The cheek lifted off his back. The hands slipped from his grasp, and a wave of coldness quickly invaded the space she had covered on his body. He exhaled deeply, theatrically. His shoulders hunched as the unavoidable question was asked:

"Why?"

He turned around to face her, the both of them sitting cross-legged on her living room rug. Mr. Kurosawa spat into the bathroom sink.

"Hana," said Tai, reaching for her hands. "I've told you everything Sora told me about what happened. Matt doesn't deserve counsel or comfort. Sora's the victim here."

"I disagree," she replied. Her fingers were loose and cold in his grip, their fragility threatened by the firmness of his clutch. "Matt appears to be just as—if not _more_—unhappy than Sora is right now."

His upper lip twitched, raising itself just a millimeter as if fighting a sneer. He veered his stare away from her—an automatic reflex whenever she challenged him.

"Look, Hana," he began, and his eyes returned to her, fiery and determined, "Matt pulled a Ryo Hiraki on Sora, all right? Did your ex-boyfriend deserve to be comforted after what he did to you? Would you call that fair? To _you?_ To _Sora?_"

Hana yanked her hands out of Tai's grip, her glare hardening. It was low of him to bring her ex into their argument, wrong of him to use that card against her, knowing full well the injury it had the potential to cause.

"You forget, _Taichi_," she fought, daring to lean forward and poke him in the shoulder, "that Ryo was _perfectly fine_ after our break-up. He _wanted_ the split. But it's clear that Matt is not _fine_ with how things turned out for him and Sora. He needs help, Tai, and you're his best friend. You should be there for him."

"No." His answer was decisively quick, and bitterly so. "No matter _what_ he's feeling, it doesn't excuse what he did to Sora."

She was stunned by his callousness, gazing at him with the same fierce disappointment she would have had she just been slapped in the face.

"Sora," she echoed, slowly getting up on her feet.

Tai's eyes darkened at the way she had said the name, her manner clipped, thinly mocking.

He rose as well, and she met his stare bravely, fearlessly, as if it was she who was staring him down.

"Why are you fighting this, Hana?" There was the grate of desperation in his voice, a hurt that was losing its battle against his anger. "You were in the same boat when your ass of an ex-boyfriend cheated on you! Don't tell me you don't remember what that was like! And now it's _our friend_ who's suffering it! _Sora's the victim here!_"

The repetition struck a painful chord in Hana. She backed away from him, her courage draining from her limbs. With a scowl, she tightened her hands into fists, pushing for one more offensive. When next she raised her eyes to meet him, her glare did not relent.

"_Don't_ bring Ryo into this," she stated firmly. "I've dealt with him. It's over. I've forgiven him, and I've moved on. And, if you remember correctly, Tai, I still talk to my '_ass_' of an ex-boyfriend, all right?"

He looked away with a slight roll of his eyes, an incredulous grin appearing on his face.

"Yeah," he scoffed. "I wonder why."

Hana clenched her teeth, fighting the urge to yell at him. She fought it until her jaw ached and her brain throbbed.

"I think you should go." She pushed the words out through stiff lips. Rubbing her forehead, she went to the coffee table and gathered his papers and books and dumped them into his backpack before zipping it shut. She thrust the bag at him, daring to look him one more time straight in the eye.

"I think you should go," she repeated.

And he did.

xXx

Ren had her long tan fingers on the doorknob to the studio exit. She turned her dark head, her face glistening with perspiration, and laughed openly at a comment from Emi before twisting the handle.

As soon as the door was parted, all three girls reeled back in surprise, Hana most of all.

"_Matt_?" she gasped, staring bug-eyed at the blond musician who stood on the opposing side.

"Ho! Tai's sending his lackey to escort you home now, Han?" exclaimed Ren. Hana knew it was a joke, but Matt's blue eyes shrank at being dubbed Tai's toadie. Luckily, he didn't bother to explain why he was there, and neither did Hana.

"Hi to you, too, Ren, Emi," Matt greeted, ice in his voice.

"You need to lighten up, Rock Star," Ren quipped, giving Matt an unwanted pat on the cheek.

"Yeah," added Emi with a sly smile. She poked him with a purple fingernail. "You're much too pretty to be so stiff."

Both dancers laughed as they continued down the hall together, enjoying their witchlike cackles. Hana faced Matt, her eyebrows furrowed.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. She noticed the guitar case in his grip, the backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Akira's girlfriend lives nearby," he answered. "I decided to accompany him on the metro ride here from practice since you'd be here, anyway."

He explained himself without any difficulty, without the pauses or stammering that would question the validity of his story. Hana said nothing, only nodded, and followed him out of the dance academy, stopping once to change her _pointe_ shoes for a pair of slip-on sneakers. She would have liked to ask Matt to wait a few minutes while she dressed out of her ballet clothes, but decided against it. He had obviously come to her with an express motive, and since Ren's tease had placed him in a bad mood, she chose not to worsen it.

They walked in silence to the metro station, Hana thankful that the evening weather was mild enough to brave in her spandex and nylon. The breeze was warm on her bare neck, almost balmy. Under the rippling veil of the city—its bright lights and its herds of people—she imagined spending the evening with Tai, the two of them sitting on blankets on her balcony, chatting idly into the night until she fell asleep in his arms.

A stab of regret hit her in the ribs, and while navigating their way to the arriving trains, Hana pulled out her mobile phone.

_I'm sorry about last night_, she texted into a new message. Then, added:

_I love you, you goof. _

Her thumb was poised over the 'send' button when Matt's shout interrupted her.

"Hana!" he yelled, beckoning her with a wave. The metro had arrived, the doors recently opened, and she knew they only had a few seconds to get in.

Snapping her phone shut, she sprinted over to him, her duffel bag crashing into her hip, her backpack banging against the small of her back. When she reached him, he stepped aside to let her pass, an arm extended to guide her. The act of chivalry created a tremor in Hana's heartbeat, made a bead of sweat trickle down the side of her face. If Tai had been with her, he'd have shoved his way into the car first and, once in, would have hauled her through the horde with a swift yank.

"Thanks," she murmured, squeezing her way inside. All seats were taken, so she and Matt stood, sharing a subway pole with what felt like twenty other people.

He stood directly behind her, the top of her head falling along the line where his chin met his neck. She could feel his exhales on her slumped shoulders, the hard case of his guitar knocking against her thigh, the toe of his shoe running into the heel of hers. Hana's fingers adjusted their grip on the greasy pole, unintentionally running her thumb into his curled pinky.

The car jerked forward.

"I'm sorry," she said over the hum of the train. "I'm sweaty and I smell bad, and you're right behind me."

He chuckled, and the sound of amusement had been so long absent that it was strange, almost unsettling. She could feel the vibrations of his laughter tickling her spine.

"Sora plays tennis, Hana," he replied, seemingly right into her ear. "I can deal with sweaty girls."

They alighted at the Odaiba Kaihin-Koen Station, which was conveniently by the apartment complexes Matt, Tai, and Sora lived in. By routine alone, Hana had taken a left, toward the Kamiya home, and Matt had to remind her of where she was going with another bellow.

"This way, Hana."

Glancing over her shoulder one last time, Hana nodded and followed Matt into the neighboring building. It occurred to her once they were inside and heading toward the elevators that Sora lived in the same complex. She wondered what the tennis player would think if she saw her with Matt, and she had wondered it aloud.

"She has a game tonight," Matt answered, unconcerned. "We won't run into her."

"How do you know that when you haven't exactly been keeping in touch lately?"

The question left her lips too soon for her to realize its insensitivity. Matt's response was dead silence.

The apartment was dark and empty when Matt unlocked the front door, and he quickly switched on the lights. For Hana, being in his apartment again brought back memories of the last time she was in his house—alone—with him. He had forced a confession out of her about her feelings for Tai. Back then, it had been she who had gone to him for assistance, and he, as a true friend, had helped her. Now, she was at last returning the favor.

"You can put your stuff anywhere," Matt said. He himself had already set his guitar on the hallway floor—a clear tripping hazard—and his backpack was tossed into an empty chair at the dining table.

Hana took a moment to scan the apartment for a suitable spot. She didn't remember the Ishida home being particularly messy, but at present, the state of Matt's house reminded her strongly of her aunt's Parisian apartment: unkempt, gritty, caked in the smell of cigarette smoke.

She pulled out a chair at the dining table and sat, keeping her belongings at her feet.

The surface of the table was littered with small pieces of paper—cards that, upon closer inspection, were each decorated uniquely. All bore the same message:

_To Matt_.

Hana sucked in a breath at the discovery. Her rock star of a friend had kept every card attached to the gift Sora had given him at each of his shows. _Every. Single. One_. She was about to reach for one she recognized, one ornamented in planets and stars, when he called to her from the kitchen.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

"More hungry than thirsty," she said. "But I'll take whatever you have."

A few minutes later, while Hana was trying to read a passage from her history book, Matt handed her a glass. It wasn't an ordinary glass. It was a wineglass, filled halfway with a rich, ruby liquid. In Matt's other hand was the dark, sweating amber bottle of a chilled beer.

He had taken his uniform jacket off, the white sleeves of his shirt rolled up above the elbows, the starched collar freed and unbuttoned. To avoid appearing rude, she accepted the wine with a bow of the head and sipped from it immediately, hoping the warmth of the bitter alcohol would erase the worries ricocheting inside her skull.

"You drink?" she asked, pulling the rim from her lips.

"No," he said, still standing. "I just need one right now." He paused. "You understand."

Hana nodded robotically, forcing down another gulp as she faced away from him. The wine burned down her esophagus and dripped stingingly into her stomach. He said something to her then—she wasn't paying attention—but since he left her alone afterwards, she figured he had gone off to another room, further delaying the talk they had planned on having.

When she detected the clamor of plates and pans in the kitchen behind her, Hana perked up. She stood, wineglass in hand, and walked into the kitchen.

"You don't have to, Matt," she said. "I'm fine. Really."

He glanced at her over his shoulder by his place at the stove. For a second, Hana thought the sharp, cool stare drifted from her face to furtively examine other features. She was instantly reminded that she was still garbed in her tights and leotard, and she contemplated rounding the corner of the kitchen counter to stand by the opposite side.

"It's nothing, Hana," he said, turning back around. She stayed where she was. "I like to cook. It helps…" His voice trailed off. "… Sora and I…" he said in a sad breath. "…we used to cook… together."

The crack and hiss of the gas burner being switched on ended his defense. He returned to the task at hand, his hair falling over his eyes and making the thin frown on his lips the only part of his face still visible. Hana continued to stand dumbly at the kitchen entrance watching him, the extent of his isolation dawning on her: how he came home to an empty apartment, his estrangement from Tai, the distance she herself fixed between them. Sora must have looked to him like some star in the night sky—unbearably, coldly removed from him, belonging to a different universe altogether.

"At least let me help, Yamato," she said, smiling a bit as she neared him. He raised his head when she pronounced his full name, the ice-blue glare finding her eyes again and blinking at her glimpily.

All he managed was a subtle nod.

She carried out his orders as dutifully as she could, acting his sous chef while he commanded the stove and oven. Her kitchen experience was minimal, which she admitted, and she chopped unevenly and had to ask him to clarify which spoon was the tablespoon and which was the teaspoon.

Throughout, she drank from her wineglass, growing more animated and garrulous with each sip. Matt, too, drank from his bottle of beer while cooking, and had downed three by the time their meal was completed. Hana herself had finished two glasses of wine by the time they sat down to eat, which was obvious in her pink face and the giggle fits that affected her like seizures.

"Ahh… that was good," Hana said, setting her utensils aside. She leaned back in her chair and patted her belly, grinning at Matt. Her wineglass stood empty for the third time on the table.

"You may only be a quarter French, Matt," she went on, "but you have the heart and skill of a true Parisian foodie." She tried to stifle a burp with a fist to her lips. It came out anyway.

"You're disgusting," Matt laughed. He picked up his plate and reached for hers, but she grabbed his wrist before he could snatch it from her possession.

"You've done enough, Yamato," she said, releasing him only when she had secured her plate and stood up. "Let me do the dishes."

He granted her wish—part of it, at least. She turned on the faucet and passed plates under the stream of water, and he stood beside, a kitchen towel in hand to dry them. Conversation had dwindled since dinner, and she casually asked him where his father was.

"He doesn't come home 'til late," he informed her. "Around ten, at the earliest." He smiled grimly. "That's what working in the media does to you."

Hana nodded sympathetically.

"That's how my dad is during finals and midterm weeks," she related.

She was tempted to look at him but couldn't. Turning too sharply made her head spin, smudged her peripheral vision. Concentrating on the water running from the faucet and the sponge in her hands helped keep her brain functioning intelligently.

"I mean," she continued, since he had said nothing, "I get lonely during those times, but there's the freedom aspect of it, too."

"Tai doesn't keep you company?"

"He does, don't get me wrong. But I don't expect him to baby me, Matt. He has stuff to do and so do I. Like tonight, for example. He's hanging out with Davis and a few soccer teammates, and I'm here, with you." She flipped the sponge over and scrubbed furiously at a stubborn stain, her fingertips beginning to go pruny. "Not that I'd like to see him right now, anyway," she muttered, thinking that she had kept her words to herself.

"Why not?" He chuckled. "You two are always like… one drink away from tearing each other's clothes off in public."

Hana rolled her eyes, unable to find any hilarity in the joke.

"We argued last night," she stated flatly. "I mean, I'm not the jealous type. I'm not. But he's been coddling Sora like she's a freaking damsel in distress." The stuck-on grime on the dish in her hands remained despite her efforts. Growling, she washed it all the harder. "And he's been completely ignoring you," Hana ranted on, "even though you're his friend, too, and you're clearly in pain, but _no_. The only person worth his concern and care right now is Sora. _Zut!_"

The plate clattered from her grip, and she lifted her hand out of the dingy dishwater, bringing her index finger to her lip. In her thorough scrubbing, she had rammed her finger into the point of a knife lying at the bottom of the sink.

Matt set the dish he had been drying aside, and his hand invaded Hana's vision, the palm up and offering assistance.

"Let me see it, Han," he commanded gently.

She shook her head, sucking at the blood that landed on her tongue in salty bursts.

"It's fine," she asserted. "Tai'd just say it's a paper cut."

"You're not with Tai, Hana," he pointed out, a tad severely. "Let me see it."

Reluctantly, she surrendered her hand to him, her thin fingerbones cradled in his wide palm, rubbing against the calloused tips of his fingers. He inspected the bleeding gash, running his thumb over it to scrape away the bead of blood before he left the kitchen and let Hana's hand linger in the air, cooling during his absence.

The faucet still ran, filling the basin up with dirty water. When he returned, he had a Band-Aid, cotton swab, and antibacterial ointment all gathered in one palm. She would have insisted on dressing the cut herself, but she couldn't exactly perform the task one-handedly.

He hesitated a few times, his fingers subtly shaking, his face unnecessarily close to the wound. Either he had no constitution for blood, or he was far enough along on his road to intoxication to have trouble focusing—much like herself.

"Thanks," she murmured, when her minor injury had been treated. She was about to dip her hands back in the sink, but Matt reached over, his fingers cupping over the hand she had on the wet faucet knob.

"I'll take care of the rest, Hana," he said softly, as if it were a secret. He inched into the space she occupied, and Hana had no choice but to retreat.

In the meantime, she approached the dining table and picked up her wineglass, her shaking hand desperately seeking something to hold on to. That, and she would have felt stupid standing there watching him wash dishes. She filled it halfway, but before she took the first sip of her fourth glass of wine, she swirled the red liquid in the crystal bowl. The light reflected off its vibrant hue, her face a distorted, crimson image on the swaying surface.

She tried not to think too much on the courtesies Matt was performing for her: escorting her to the metro, the arm that guided her onto the train, the hospitality in his home, the preparation of dinner, the generous offer to clean up after themselves, the mending of her wound. _She_ was supposed to be the one helping _him_, and yet the night clearly showed the opposite. He had done her numerous favors already, while she stood slightly drunk against the kitchen counter, eyeing his turned back with confusion and a pang of regret—not because she felt guilty about being treated so kindly by the person who needed the most help, but because she had drawn comparisons before she could help herself.

Her addled brain strove to locate the last memory in which Tai had done something pure and selfless for her, something chivalrous. She only grew more upset when she couldn't find one. A sick feeling grew in her stomach. Her face felt heavy and drawn, as if the skin were being pulled from her skull. Her throat tightened.

As Matt began to finish up the rest of the dishes, she ducked her nose in the wineglass, wanting to drown in it. She forced herself to drink, of the same mind as a child who took his acrid dose of cough syrup in order to be soothed by the drug's healing properties. Here, before her, was the friend who was purportedly the villain in the story Tai had told her. She refused to believe it.

"Did you want more?"

His question plucked her from her musings, and she lifted her nose out of her glass. He held the wine bottle by the neck.

"Um, no, thanks," she told him, blinking the water out of her eyes.

He retrieved another wineglass from a cupboard and poured the rest of the bottle's contents into its bowl before rejoining her. The two of them leaned against the counter, their elbows resting on the rounded edge, standing like loiterers looking for trouble on the street. Wordlessly, they drank. Silently, they avoided eye contact. Quietly, they postponed their talk until the sounds of their breathing and the tight swallows of wine made Hana's ears itch.

"I have to apologize to you, Matt," she began, her tone ruefully sincere. She set her empty glass on the countertop. "You asked _me_ to help _you_ tonight, but it seems like you've switched the roles around."

He humored her with a cheap laugh, though he wasn't smiling.

"I honestly didn't mean to, Hana." He sighed and placed his hollow glass beside hers. "I just…" He shrugged half-heartedly. "Whenever Sora had problems, I'd be there for her. I'd listen. I'd do whatever I could to make her day go by easier. Little things. Nothing huge like baking her a cake or anything, but…"

Hana _hmm_-ed in reply, the hum guttural, surfacing from the very back of her throat.

"…Like doing the dishes? Giving her a well-needed pick-me-up? Cooking her dinner?" she said, hints of her usual playfulness coming out.

"Yeah."

Hana simpered bitterly. She rubbed her arms. Tai had always been of the mind that any problem of hers could be remedied in one huge effort. He didn't practice subtlety. If she did badly on a test or had a rough day at ballet practice, she would be smothered with affection. Extreme pain was always met with extreme love—provided that he shared the view that she had been treated unfairly, dealt a bad hand. Otherwise, any form of comfort was withheld. If she felt bad because of something she herself had caused, he was not one to provide sympathy. But for her, misery had but one shade, and it merited concern and attention regardless of its source.

"You know," she said, releasing the words with a sigh, "tonight I thought you'd tell me your side of the story and convince me that way that you're not the Grade A asshole Tai and Sora think you are right now. But even if that was your plan, I can tell you now, Ishida, that it would have been useless."

She averted her eyes from the linoleum tile of the kitchen and risked a glimpse at him. His blue eyes looked at her defeatedly. The color of them was dull, watery, just a few degrees short of the milky white of a cataract. These were the eyes that used to sparkle in Sora's company, complemented by a smile that invited everyone who witnessed it to instantly fall in love with him; but it was like looking into a porcelain mask. If she so much as dared to touch the smooth edge of his cheek, would it crack and shatter into ten thousand pieces?

He didn't flinch when she touched his shoulder. She had approached him gently, exercising the same control and poise requested of her when she performed emotive ballet routines. Her instructors had coached her in the art of grace, helped her perfect the lay of her fingers so that they fell on their target like an autumn leaf or a shed feather. Such was the way her hand settled on Matt's shoulder.

"You've _shown_ me all the proof I'll need," she said. The hand on his shoulder lifted. Her loosely curled fingers hovered by his cheek. The resigned manner in his posture, the stare that shifted under ashamed eyelids, conveyed his mistrust of her words. She wasn't her boyfriend, who could inspire so much courage in a rock that it could glow, but she would try to lend strength in whatever way she could.

Without timidity or hesitation, she reached for his chin and tipped it up gently before moving her hand to brush some strands of his hair that had fallen over his face. The gesture was unaffected, natural, as if she had done it a thousand times previous. In a sense, she had. It surprised even her how much Tai appreciated the assuring pass of a hand through his hair, the tender stroke that hugged his mind and carried the same message as a spoken, "I'm here for you."

"You're a good guy, Matt," she said, at length, her hand coming to rest against his cheek. "Sora and Tai might not believe that right now, but _I_ do."

The blue eyes lifted. They stared back at her unblinkingly, shivering in uncertainty under the steadiness of her gaze. When they did blink, she thought she saw color burn under his skin, felt his head lean into her hand. The hard line of his mouth softened at the possibility that he was not a failed human being. She smiled feebly, hoping to lead him by example, but as quickly as the changes came, they fled.

He blinked once more and cast his stare aside.

"You shouldn't," he murmured. He took the hand she had pressed to his face and pushed it back towards herself, his fingers releasing hers at the area over her heart. He turned around and jammed his hands into his pockets. "You should probably go, Hana."

Swallowing, she assented, her eyes roving over her surroundings as if she just realized where she was. She reached for her wineglass on the counter and placed it in the empty kitchen sink, her sudden movement making her brain feel like it had melted into some viscous liquid.

Her feet took her to the dining room where her bags were, though she was markedly aware of his stationary position in the kitchen, as if she could feel his eyes boring into her back.

She shook her head, her hands trembling as she gathered her things. It felt like every item in the apartment, including themselves, was connected by lines of string, all of them taut to the point of breaking, and the permeating silence only served to rattle the fibers, forcing them to snap.

'Probably,' he had said.

Her hands clenched. She hated that her heart was pounding, that the alcohol she had swallowed was making her feverish and sweaty. Her backpack was swung over one shoulder, her duffel bag being carried in another hand. She sped for the exit, narrowly tripping over the guitar case he had left haphazardly on the hallway floor.

"Hana."

Her arm jerked on instinct, though unsuccessfully. The hand that had grabbed her elbow still clung, and she was staring back up into his face, detecting in his profoundly blue eyes nothing desperate or dangerous, just an unemptiable loneliness.

"I don't mean to kick you out," he said, releasing her.

"It's… It's all right, Matt," she comforted, trying not to betray any worry in her voice. On a reflex, she patted him on the shoulder, hoping the gesture would assuage him if her words failed to, and she didn't look at him to check if her message was received. But even if her gaze was trained on the floor, he was still standing close enough by her that his body was in her view: the rumpled hem of his shirt, the small white buttons running up his chest. The warmth coming off him was almost tangible.

"It's late," she said, removing her hand from him.

She gulped audibly, as if she were swallowing a rock, when the white buttons she had been staring at neared. His knees bumped into her legs. Still, she refused to raise her head, and she felt the tip of his nose on her cheek, the softness of his hair on her forehead.

"I know," he said, and she could trace the movement of his lips on her face as he spoke, like a crying child murmuring his woes into his mother's ear. "Thank you, Hana."

Their brows touched, the dull thud of bone meeting bone to bridge a connection between minds. She felt sick, as if, in that moment, he had transferred every negative feeling in his body to her, burdened her with his demons.

"Matt…"

Bravely, she lifted her hand and pushed his mouth away, water in her eyes as she looked back at him.

But it wasn't she who shed the first tear. He hardly held her stare for two seconds before he buried his face in his hands, his entire body shaking as saltwater moistened the palms pressed over his eyes.

"_I'm sorry_," he wept; and so simple a phrase was pushed out a parched, constricting throat, broken up by heaves that racked the lungs. "_I'm so sorry…_"

He wept the words over and over again, reducing himself to some hunched form sitting on the floor, his back sliding down the kitchen counter. Hana turned away, too cowardly to witness his anguish head on. The back of her hand was brought to her trembling lips, her face hurting as she fought the impulse to cry with him. The first tear to leak out of the corner of her eye was briskly wiped away, and she could do little else—had no heart to do anything else—except flee.

She cursed herself as she abandoned him in his apartment, the finality of the click of the lock falling into place preventing her from pivoting around and running back. His apologies were displaced, unintended for her. They were for another who resided in the same building, in the same broken house of regret. It would have been wrong to stay, to be the recipient of a pardon she did not deserve.

And, still, it bothered her how vulnerable she had been to his loneliness, how greatly she had wished to be the friend who would nobly partake in his pain. But she had accomplished the exact opposite. How stupid she was to think that it was she whom he needed, when the answer to his problems was so glaring, so obvious, that, if visualized, it would have burned the cornea in an eye. What he needed was the half of himself that he had lost. _Who_ he needed was Sora Takenouchi; and it sickened Hana to know that she was in the same building as he, fighting the same fight, yet she would pass the night oblivious to his torment, ignorant of the fact that, if she were to stand but a few floors lower, he would be weeping repentantly at her feet.

xXx

**A/N: Ahh, don't kill me! If you do decide to privilege me with a review, please be honest. If you think Matt's character is absolutely WHACK, if you think Hana's being a meddling bitch, etc, TELL ME. Your honesty is what matters to me, and I apologize beforehand if this was an unbearable read. **

**In my defense, I promise good things. I just won't reveal when or how they will happen. **

**Thank you, as always, for reading. :) **


	4. Dissent: Part II

**A/N: Thank you for your continued readership and reviews! I'll be brief. Here is Part II of this hellhole of a story, featuring our favorite gogglehead and his redheaded best friend. (And who says I can't write Taiora? XD) Warning: OOC-ness. Also, sh*t hits the fan in this one. Brace yourselves.**

xXx

_- Dissent -_

_(Part II)_

xXx

**S**he had taken to waking in the mornings to a dark, grey-washed bedroom. Before, daylight had been welcomed through her windows, but at present, her curtains were drawn over the lowered blinds. They only opened at night, when she looked out at the freckled sky like a lovelorn heroine in a television drama.

Her alarm clock had gone off thirty minutes ago, and yet she dreaded leaving the comfort of her sheets. Her head shifted in the dimple of her pillow, pressing her nose into fabric that smelled overwhelmingly of him despite the tears that had nightly soaked it.

After her mother softly tapped on her door, Sora finally summoned the energy to raise herself. Briefly, her red-brown eyes surveyed the state of her room—clean and orderly, save for the picture frames face down, and the wilted flower drooping solo in a vase. She blinked, catching in the flash of black a memory of herself manically going around her room, crying as her fingers tipped photo frames over. She had snatched the flower in the vase, thinking she had had the courage to hurl it into a wastebasket. But once it had been in her grip, she faltered and sank into her desk chair, spilling her tears on its withering petals like a spring rain.

That had been weeks ago, and still, she refused to throw it away, though her mother had said the water had started to smell.

She proceeded with the motions of dressing down and dressing up like an automaton, barely registering the fact that she was breathing. As she brushed her hair, she kept her back turned to the mirror. Her reflection was to be avoided, and the only sensation suffered was the scrape of bristles as they dug into her scalp.

A second knock came, and her mother's voice came muffled from the other side.

"Tai just called to say that he's on his way out with Kari if you wanted to catch the bus with them, Sora," she said.

Gradually, Sora's hand stayed from further brushing. Her best friend from childhood had taken the title to a different level in the weeks since her break-up with Matt. He called her nearly every day if they didn't get the opportunity to converse in person, and the question he asked her the most frequently was, "How are you feeling, Sor?" followed closely by, "Is there anything I can do?"

Cautiously, her head turned, chin touching her shoulder as she risked a glimpse at her mirror. She tried not to grimace at the face that stared back at her: the sunken circles around her eyes, lips unattractively bent into a frown. Mimi had taught her a few tricks to conceal all sorts of ailments—fatigue, sleeplessness, a sty. It was a shame she never had a surefire method for hiding heartbreak. All Sora could do in the meantime was pinch some color into her cheeks and practice a pan-American smile.

"I'll be out soon, Mom," she called back, opening a squeaky drawer in her vanity. Quickly, she scanned the assortment of hair accessories, ultimately selecting a barrette stored deep in a corner. She clipped it to her hair and closed the drawer with a nudge of her hip (it was rarely opened), before she slipped on her backpack, opened her bedroom door, and waved her mother goodbye.

"Hey."

She squinted as a ray of sunshine hit her when she exited her apartment complex.

"Morning," she said, acknowledging Tai and Kari with a nod.

Tai grinned—a rare thing to see so early in the morning. Most weekdays he arrived at school rubbing the crust from his eyes and getting asked by his neatly dressed girlfriend if he had brushed his teeth. Sora still remembered the times she had had to fix his tie for him, but he looked remarkably put together that morning. His uniform jacket was lint-free. No creases on his trousers. She was thoroughly surprised when it was he who said, "This is a different side of you, Takenouchi. You're usually at school by the time I'm awake."

He was peering at her, his brown eyes looking a burnished gold in the sunlight.

"That the hair clip I got you for your birthday, like, ages ago?" He pointed at the item in question.

Sora blushed and looked to the floor for deliverance, her fingers tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear—an act she instantly regretted. The sensation of fingertips sweeping over the curve of skin brought back a ghost of a memory—of a time when she didn't possess the tic and of the boy who had made it his duty to hide her embarrassment at all costs.

"Um, yeah," she mumbled.

"Well, about time it saw the light of day, right?" he ribbed, nudging her with his elbow. "It was probably in hair-clip dungeon all this time!"

He laughed. It was loud, gimmicky, strident enough to send a few birds vocalizing their disapproval, and Sora shrank away from him. She threaded her fingers through a clump of her hair, rubbing the ends and debating whether or not to pull the accessory at that instant.

"Sora," Tai said.

It wasn't his voice that startled her. It was the hand that touched her head before resting on her shoulder. She looked at him, confused over the sudden friendliness. All she received was his grin, confident and assuring as always.

"It looks great. Relax."

He kept his arm around her—comfortably, loose—even as they entered the school building. For a split second, she caught blips of the time, long ago, when they had dated, how his chin bumped lightly into the top of her head when he hugged her. She knew not to interpret the action as anything but a benign gesture. There was a notable difference in the way Tai walked with his friends—male and female—and in the way he walked with his girlfriend. Sora was reminded of that contrast the moment Tai spotted Hana by her locker.

The weight on her shoulders lifted, and the boy who had until then been stepping in stride with her quickened his pace to get ahead.

"Hey, we're still doing lunch today, right?" he asked in parting, half-walking backwards as he looked back at her.

"Yeah," she said, giving him a short nod. "I hope you don't mind eating with tennis players."

"You kidding me?" He smirked. "Your teammates love me!"

She couldn't help but laugh, and it was a welcome feeling—the giddiness, the cheer bubbling out of her mouth because of him. He sealed his departure with a wave, and she returned it, turning a corner, but looking back—just once—to watch his big-haired self shrink in the distance.

xXx

Tai's heartbeat escalated slightly as he approached his girlfriend. Her back was toward him, her locker open as she shelved a few textbooks.

By first glance alone, he knew she was still smarting from their argument the other night. In fact, she seemed uncharacteristically disheveled—her hair, usually brushed and worn down, was twisted up in a hastily made bun already in disarray. Her uniform was wrinkled, and when she turned to face him, she looked much the way he imagined LadyDevimon without her mask.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, more insensitively than he would have liked.

Her reply was a groan, dissatisfied and worsened by general morning crankiness. His eyebrows wrinkled as he examined her more closely. Hana might have been on the extreme end of the paleness spectrum, but at present, she was bordering on zombie-grey. He sniffed, a familiar, but unpleasant odor invading his nostrils.

"Are you…" He sniffed again. "Are you… _hungover_?"

"No," she spat back, her jaw cricking. Her face tilted into the hand she pressed against her cheek, a clear indication of the headache rankling her brain.

"Hana," he said, taking his voice down an octave. "Either you're wearing _eau de I-Drank-Like-Six-Glasses-of-Wine_ or you're hungover."

She didn't say anything. Her head only bowed, her brow touching his chest and the hand that had been cradling her throbbing cranium gripping his uniform jacket. He sighed and repeated her name, slipping his fingers beneath her chin. She stayed his hand.

"Tai, don't," she commanded. She swallowed, hard, her hold on his wrist tightening, before she hurriedly mumbled, "I'm going to throw up."

Her schoolbooks were flung to the ground, and she ran, a hand pressed to her mouth as she stumbled into the girl's bathroom, Tai in hot pursuit. The female students in the restroom shrieked when he entered right behind her, and he backpedaled into the stall Hana headdove into, uttering his cheap excuse of, "Sorry. Don't mind me. Vomiting girlfriend coming through," before he shut the stall door and drew the latch, Hana's retching already echoing against the bathroom tiles.

"Hell, Hana," he said. His hands flexed a few times before he reached over and pulled her hair away from her face, trying, meanwhile, not to look into the toilet bowl. When she had finished, bending over the bowl and coughing as she pressed the flush lever, he was resigned to find her pathetic in that moment. Even so, he was worried.

They exited the stall. The flock of female students huddled by the sinks whispered up until Tai led Hana to one of the faucets to rinse the spittle from her mouth. Whatever rumors were destined to circulate would have to be dealt with when they came.

The warning bell rung as Tai escorted Hana to her locker, but he ignored it, staying by her as she lethargically collected her things.

"Hana," he began, touching her shoulder. "What happened last night? You just went to talk to Matt, right?"

"I did," she murmured, not looking at him. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, her eyes winched shut as if in pain. "Okay, Taichi," she breathed, inhaling deeply and bobbing her head up and down a few times. "I'll explain everything to you later, but for now, just know that I'm fine. _Everything's fine_."

_Bullshit_.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying the word, knowing that speaking his mind would only put them on a trajectory straight into another stupid argument. He tapped his fist against the row of lockers to his left, hard enough to rattle the metal.

"All right," he surrendered. He fished his phone out of his pocket and read the time. They had two minutes to get to class, which ended up being irrelevant information. He had more to say to her, and he would risk the tardy.

"Did you get my texts or voicemail message last night?" he questioned.

"Your what?" She blinked at him owlishly before taking her phone out of her backpack pocket. A long time was spent staring at the screen, her eyes sliding right to left. Eventually, a hand rose to rest against her open mouth.

Only his name was uttered, and in lieu of her continued silence, he repeated what he sent her via text.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. Matt's my friend, too, and yeah, I'd be lying if I didn't notice that he's been looking like crap lately. I should be there for him—like you said. And while I don't distrust anything Sora told me, I guess… I guess there might be more to this than what's being let on."

He smiled timidly at her. It was both exciting and disturbing how easily an apology could escape his mouth. He was thankful she was humbling him, but he was afraid that, if that was indeed the case, one day would come when his "I'm sorry" wouldn't be enough, would be flat, a trite phrase robbed of meaning by overuse.

But he was certain that morning was not the moment. He expected her to say, "I'm so happy you understand that, Taichi," or some variation of it, but she said nothing of the sort.

"You said we'll talk later?"

"Yeah." He sank against the row of lockers and stared at her suspiciously. "Why?"

"Okay." She shut her locker door. "I have to get to class. We'll finish this later, hmm?"

Her brusqueness silenced him. All he could manage was an obedient nod, though every other part of him demanded a better explanation. If he hadn't gone through the routine enough times, he'd not have bothered with their usual parting tradition. He angled his head south, the standard address prepped on his lips, but he felt her fingers on his mouth, gently easing him back.

"I'm not feeling it this time, Taichi," she said. She looked up at him sadly, her green eyes unnervingly glassy. A shiver passed through his chest.

"Hana."

She expertly dodged capture, turning around before he could steal her back. Her legs took her down the hallway at a sprint as the late bell sounded, but Tai was impervious to the warning. He stood, baffled, where she had left him, staring down the empty hallway as if he had just witnessed a mirage.

xXx

Sooner or later, they would call her out on it. She'd receive a tap on her shoulder, the hook to reel her back to conversation she was indifferent to. The question would follow: '_Sora, stop looking over your shoulder. What are you watching for, anyway?_' and she would reply, without pause or complaint: '_Tai._'

It wasn't a complete lie. Her tennis teammates were well aware that the soccer captain would be joining them for lunch, but her eyes were not searching for Tai's lithe, athletic build or the bloom of his brown hair.

They peered repeatedly, obsessively, in the direction of her old lunch table where Izzy and Matt sat. She wouldn't allow herself the indignity of acknowledging the truth. She wasn't staring at _him_. She wasn't. What seized her undesired attention was a much finer detail—one that made her heart palpitate and forced a sourness to coagulate around her tongue.

Matt's hand was lain protectively—possessively—flat on the top of a bento box, but not just any. The pastel pink plastic and glaring prints of ballet shoes and ribbons wordlessly labeled its owner.

_Hana_.

Sora rubbed her forehead vigorously with the heel of her palm, as if the physical motion of erasure could delete the shameful suspicions already congealing within the hemispheres of her brain.

She wasn't jealous. Jealousy was a foreign emotion for her. Her ability to find and celebrate a person's virtues made her incapable of feeling envy toward anyone. Yet, the questions could not be helped. _Why_ would her boyfriend—her _ex-_boyfriend—be guarding her friend's—her _female_ friend's—lunch? Matt had never expressed any remote interest in the blossoming ballerina; and Hana, of course, had—

"Tai!"

The gasp escaped her lips in sync with the flinch that jerked her body as Tai sat himself beside her. His impromptu arrival jostled her thoughts in the same manner the tray he dropped on the table rattled her teammates' lunches. Her worries were thoroughly scrambled, and Matt and Hana and the bento box enigma scattered like the ten thousand shattered pieces of a broken mirror.

"You're so easy to spook, Sora," Tai chortled, patting her on the back. "What's up?"

"She only freaked 'cause you interrupted her looking over her shoulder at You-Know-Who," one of her teammates replied, sending her an omniscient look.

"Why?" Tai asked.

Sora glanced at him. She imagined the pupils in his brown eyes shrinking to the width of a pinhead. He amended his question.

"Has he been bothering you?" His glare was cast over his shoulder at the subject of their gossip, and, like a chastened child, Sora rapidly shook her head.

"No, no," she said, surprised at the feebleness of her denial. She placed a hand on his arm. "I just noticed that Hana's not with them, that's all. I was wondering where she was."

She kept her hand where it was, just below his shoulder, hoping to pacify him before Izzy or, God forbid, Matt took notice. Slowly, the tenseness felt beneath her fingertips melted away, and he looked back at her, a smile returning to his face.

"She's probably just running late, asking a teacher to let her retake a quiz she failed." He shrugged as he dug into his food. "But how've _you_ been? Your day going all right so far?"

She offered him a bleak smile.

"Yeah."

It simultaneously bothered and delighted her that Tai had taken more of an interest in her own doings than in his girlfriend's. She knew it was wrong of her to think that way, to pride herself for attracting the majority of his attention, but most people she talked to—friends and family alike—conversed with her as if they were walking on hot coals. Questions about her break-up, and, consequently, about her life in general, were tactfully avoided, and she failed to realize that for the past few weeks, her life _had_ been one-dimensional heartache. All she could think about was the emptiness that lived in her like a parasite, her mind returning to explore its expanding void over and over again like a tongue that probed the bloody socket where a pulled tooth once stood.

If anyone would rescue her from sinking into despair, it was Tai, with his infectious laughter and his silly antics, his protective instincts and brotherly concern. While he had a history for unintentionally upsetting her, he was welcomingly compassionate whenever her disappointment wasn't his fault. Yet, despite her readiness to depend on him, Sora felt no ember of warmth tingle in her heart, no wave of peace envelop her.

While it was true that Tai was always willing to offer her a shoulder to cry on, he was her go-to after the damage had already been done. Matt had a strange and innate ability to know she'd need him _while_ a disaster unfolded. He arbitrarily, for no reason whatsoever, missed band practice one night just to go to a tennis match of hers that she correctly predicted she'd lose. With other friends—with Tai, Mimi, Izzy, Hana—she considered herself lucky if she reached through to them via phone or text on the first try. With Matt, his response was instantaneous, like the police, firefighters, and EMTs on emergency call.

It hadn't been Tai who had saved her from the darkness she had fallen victim to in the Digital World. Years later, and Tai still didn't know exactly what she had felt when she had sat in that dark, echoless cave, the shadows as dense as packed earth, her body compressed into a ball that shielded her heart. It took one with a matching pain to pry her from her doubts, one who had been there before and knew the paths out.

It had been Matt.

"Sora?"

She blinked rapidly, pressing her lips tightly together to keep the muscles in her face tight with normalcy.

"Yeah?" she replied.

"I…" Tai cleared his throat and pivoted in his seat so that he faced her. His eyes were coated in worry. "I'm going to head out early, to check on Hana. One of your teammates just told me she's in the nurse's office. That okay?"

"Of course," she lied. Her hands gripped her uniform skirt in clumps, trying to remain brave in the face of the personification of courage. "Tell her to get well soon."

"Thanks."

He stood, picking his tray up with him, and the emptiness she had been battling throbbed in her like a mad heartbeat. She wanted to reach out a hand, to take back her words and tell him the truth—that she needed his companionship now more than ever—but she never mustered the strength.

All she ended up saying was a measly, "Tai…" and she was convinced he hadn't even heard her.

"Hey."

Again she felt the warm touch of his hand on her hair, the comforting smile he beamed back at her. His thumb brushed over the barrette still clipped to her hair.

"Chin up, Takenouchi."

Her hair was ruffled tenderly, his hand making its way down, grazing her ear, hovering past the line of her jaw before she felt a finger beneath her chin, tapping it gently so her teeth clicked.

"I'll try," she said, stifling a smile.

Tai gave her a look and made his exit, backing up as the space between them grew.

"No," he said, pointing a finger at her. "You _do_."

xXx

The white squares of tile formed an endless, antiseptic road under his cleats, leading him down a route to the soccer pitch he normally didn't take. But he needed the extra time to think. His day had been absurdly shitty—not necessarily in terms of misfortune befalling _him_, but rather with regards to the crap afflicting his friends.

Sora had practically been absent during lunch—at least mentally. She barely ate or said a word. He had had to pass the time talking to her teammates, which wasn't an awful experience, but he was there for Sora, _not _to get the latest school gossip. When one of them mentioned, offhandedly, that his girlfriend was in the nurse's office, he nearly spewed out the milk he had been chugging.

Up until that point, Hana's hangover had been pushed to the back of his mind, but when he caught wind of her dwindling dignity he found himself earnestly fretting. He went straight to the nurse's office after the lunch period and was greeted by the nurse with so fake and forced a smile he thought her jaw would crack. That she kept the Botox grin while she reached out, took his hand, and discreetly shoved something into his palm confused him further. When he looked down at the item given, he choked on his own spit.

It was a condom.

Tai groaned at the recent memory and passed both his hands furiously through his hair, stopping once to massage his temples. He should have seen it coming. What else were his peers supposed to think when they witnessed Hana blowing chunks in the wee hours of a weekday morning?

To make matters worse, he had caught Matt and Hana conversing by her locker after the bell, the former looking unusually concerned and the latter still lowering her hungover head in shame. While the sight of them talking wasn't cause for suspicion, the way Matt froze at the sight of him and fled from Hana like a burglar from a crime _was_.

The conversation Tai had with Izzy just minutes ago replayed in his head.

"Why the hell does this stuff always happen to me?" he yammered, resting the back of his head on the locker beside Izzy's.

"Because neither you nor Hana attempt to dampen your public displays of affection, and you haven't exactly given Matt any indication that you want him within five feet of you," Izzy easily explained. The door to his locker shut, and in a rare gesture of sympathy, he set a hand on Tai's shoulder. "I wouldn't worry about it, Tai. The rumors about you and Hana will blow over," he said. "Especially when Hana shows no other signs of pregnancy."

"Give me a break, Koushiro." Tai folded his arms and frowned visibly. "Knowing our classmates, they'll just think we… _she_…" His tongue staled in his mouth, and the thought was never completed.

"Tai." Izzy's voice rose a note higher than its typically tinny tenor. "You're living the life of an average teenager, not one from one of Yolei's ridiculous television dramas. It'll pass. Compose yourself. In a few years, you'll be in university and none of this will matter."

His advice, while thoughtfully given, was inapplicable to a person of Tai's make. Unlike Izzy, who could remove himself from the flurry of external and burdensome stimuli, Tai didn't have the ability to distance himself from his dilemmas. When reality smacked him with disasters, he was grounded hip-deep in them, fighting them until he secured the victory of a resolution.

But at that point, he highly preferred battling a swarm of evil digimon to confronting the hells of high school.

"Tai!"

His stare lifted at the cry, and he turned, catching sight of Sora's flame-colored hair as she hailed him from the opposing end of the hallway. She was garbed in her tennis uniform, the hem of her skirt ruffling with the sway of her hips.

"Hey, Takenouchi," he greeted, smiling for her as she approached. She looked significantly better than she had during the lunch period. Her eyes were a strong, expressive red, bright with possibility. She even breathed like one about to embark on a new adventure, shallowly, excitedly. A warm shade of pink dusted her sleek face.

"Shouldn't you be at tennis practice?" he asked, realizing he had been staring at her for an inappropriate length of time.

She looked at him quizzically, an eyebrow raised in sportive interest. He was instantly reminded of Hana and how she hadn't shown him her pert little smile in what seemed like ages.

"Shouldn't _you_ be at soccer practice?" she bandied.

He chuckled.

"Touché." His lips spread into a smirk. "But, really, what's up?"

"Nothing," she said, shrugging automatically. "I forgot to get my spare racket, but then I saw you and I thought I'd say hi…" She grimaced with embarrassment. "…since I wasn't very social during lunch. Sorry."

"Don't sweat it." Her apology made him inexplicably want to reach out and touch the barrette still clipped to her hair. "You've been going through a tough time." He jammed his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah. Tell me about it." Her voice momentarily sank back into the heaviness of grief, like the quick pass of a cloud over the shining face of the sun, but her eyes refocused, blinking away the shadow that had begun to trail her too often. "But it's been getting better—gradually. With your help, of course."

He laughed.

"That's what I'm here for, Sora," he declared proudly. "I'd be a pretty crap friend if I just let you suffer this alone."

"I know. You've always been here for me, Tai, and I guess… Sometimes I don't realize that as often as I should." She smiled, and the beauty of seeing it after so many days of her sulking around made him flush. The fingers trapped in his pockets curled into his palms. She only looked up at him with that same fond, gentle stare, the kind that invited complete confidence in her—something he had lost touch with since their break-up years ago.

He decided to humor her, hoping with a surprising intensity that her smile would stay because of him.

"Well, cookies are a nice reminder."

She laughed—brightly, gorgeously, like the mellifluous trill of a bird.

"My evenings are a bit too busy to bake you cookies everyday," she said, checking her giggles, "but how about I treat you to dinner Friday?"

He was nodding before he realized it.

"Great!" he said. "That sounds great. Matt and Hana had their bro-chat, anyway. It's time we had ours."

She blanched when the name passed his lips.

"I mean—" Tai panicked for words. "Not that—You know I didn't mean—I wasn't—"

"N-No!" she interrupted, reaching for him. "What's done is done. It's… um… It's time I move on."

"Right." Tai sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. She didn't sound in the least convinced that 'moving on' was the right decision for her, yet the words had been said and, knowing her, she would feel obligated to see the entire recuperative process to completion. In that way she was like him. Neither of them could leave anything unfinished.

"That's really brave of you, Sor," he said. His stare veered to the floor. The reflection of the fluorescent ceiling lights shone in wide, blurry beams across the white tile. It took him nearly two years to get over her, and the memory of that struggle made a corner of his mouth to forcibly bend south.

"It's not an easy thing to do," he said.

"I don't expect it to be," she whispered. "You know better than anyone else that courage like that doesn't come naturally to me, Tai."

He could feel her fingers slide up his arm, holding onto him just a bit tighter. He wondered when she had gotten so close to him that he could feel the heat off her body, or sense the beads of sweat gathering around his hairline. He risked a glimpse. She spoke.

"Someone very dear to me told me to keep my chin up and hope for the best. And that is exactly what I intend on doing."

The urge could not be helped. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and let the backs of his fingers brush against the clump of red hair grouped under the barrette. Her chin tucked inward. She cleared her throat and he took back his hand, avoiding eye contact with her.

"Glad to hear it," he mumbled, adjusting the strap of his athletic bag digging into his shoulder. Slowly, he turned on his heel, throwing her a peace sign so he didn't have to witness her embarrassment, and she didn't have to see his. The words that left his mouth faded in the surge of blood rushing to his skull.

"I'll see you around, Sora."

xXx

His dinner fork trembled atop the white linen tablecloth, the light of the squat candles in the center of their table glinting off its metal tines. More than once, the leg anxiously bouncing up and down under the table smacked a knee against the wooden underside, jangling every item neatly spread before them. Drops of water sloshed out of his glass.

Sora didn't make any comment, though he was certain she noticed he was being peculiarly antsy. His confusion and the nervousness that sprang from it emanated off him in rippling waves, spreading like radio transmissions across the entire restaurant. Though, that didn't necessarily mean everybody else would partake in his anxiety. The hum of idle chatter buzzed annoyingly in his ears. He could barely concentrate on the menu he had been staring at for the past ten minutes. Appealing to Sora for help was out of the question. His evening had gone on just fine until she showed up on his doorstep, smartly dressed.

He had assumed they would be going some place casual for their dinner out, but her attire suggested otherwise—not that she was dressing for any particular motive. Sora was not the type of girl to dress to impress—unless it was for Yamato. She was always neat and careful with her wardrobe selections. Tackiness was not her style. He couldn't even remember if he had ever seen her bra-strap slide out under a shirt or caught a glimpse of her naked midriff. Hana, however, preferred loose clothing, articles that hid her spare frame, were easy to remove, with plenty of space beneath for an extra pair of hands.

The arrival of their waitress startled him out of his thoughts, and without thinking, he mumbled, "I'll have whatever she's having."

"Really?"

Sora looked at him, one eyebrow raised, to which he only shrugged.

"What?"

"You're going to order a salad?"

"Oh…" Tai blushed. "Um…" He quickly re-opened the menu and looked down at the print, though it felt like he had forgotten how to read.

"He'll have the Chef's Special," Sora dictated, gently setting her hand on his menu so it was pinned down to the table. "Cooked medium-rare."

After their waitress had left, Tai grimaced and leaned back in his chair, bearing Sora's piqued visage like a child awaiting punishment for a petty crime.

"Are you all right, Tai?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," he lied. His dinner fork was still swaying. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

Their eyes met, her brown-red irises looking even more like the licking flames of the candles arrayed on their table.

Tai's question was about to filter through his teeth when he heard the doors to the restaurant open and shut with an alarming loudness, as if the murmur of diners around them was smothered by a giant hand. His eyes looked away from Sora only briefly, sliding in the direction of the entrance, and his knee kicked up one last time. It hit the table with such momentum that his glass of water finally tipped over. Liquid splashed over the candles and burned out the tiny flames in sputtering hisses.

"What the f…"

He never uttered the word. His jaw unhooked, as if someone had punched him so hard in the face that his mandible was dislodged.

"What is it?" Sora asked, and then she said something he never dreamed of her saying in a million years:

"Oh, _shit_."

Walking in their direction, led by a restaurant host, were Hana and Matt.

Any wish to remain unnoticed was a futile prayer. He and Sora were positioned smack in their route, and already the nauseating stench of awkwardness was settling on them, making it an arduous labor to breathe.

Names were issued in varying degrees of surprise—and dread.

"…Tai?" Hana greeted slowly, her green eyes enlarging.

"Hana?" Tai blurted.

Matt's own salutation was forced through tight lips.

"…Sora."

"Matt."

Their host paused hesitantly by the table, the menus in hand serving as a shield to the potentially disastrous encounter.

"Are you four a party?" he was brave enough to propose.

"Yes."

Tai and Hana answered instantaneously, speaking before Matt or Sora could stammer a denial.

"Well, let me just grab two more chairs, and…"

Once the arrangements had been made, Matt and Hana sat, the latter purposefully taking the seat beside Tai so Matt would be forced into Sora's comfort zone for the first time in weeks. While Tai had no doubts about his friends' abilities to remain courteous in public, putting Matt and Sora beside each other when they weren't ready was like repeatedly tapping a nuke with a hammer. He glowered lightly at his girlfriend for her impertinence, and once Matt and Hana had each given their orders to the waitress, Tai took his girlfriend gently by the elbow and leaned into her ear.

"I need to talk to you."

She assented without argument, excusing herself with a smile, before following Tai to the restrooms. When they were safely in each other's confidence, he looked her right in the eye and angrily whispered:

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She was prepared to defend herself, eyeing him disdainfully through a tight squint.

"I could ask you the same thing, Taichi," she countered, crossing her arms. "Because unless mine eyes deceive me," she mocked, "what you and Sora are doing looks less like a platonic chat over a meal and more like a romantic dinner date—cheesecake and all."

He glared at her, appalled with the shortcomings in her reasoning.

"And what about you, Miss Dress-That-Accentuates-My-Sashaying-Hips? You told me you were hanging out with Matt tonight to 'make-up' for the last time you met. You know, where he got you drunker than a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day? And look where you are!"

"_I_ didn't know he was taking me to this blasted place!" she asserted, jabbing at her flat chest with four stiff fingers. "I thought we were just going to go grab some burgers and then talk over our indigestion about what he needs to do about Sora, but then he comes to my apartment dressed… well… dressed like he always is, but then he told me he made freaking _reservations_ for tonight and I had no option but to change out of my ballet sweats."

"Well, _I_ didn't know Sora was taking me here, either," Tai defended, lamely. Hana sent him an incredulous look, and he leaned against a neighboring wall, running a hand through his hair.

He sighed grandly.

"You don't think they're…?"

He never finished the thought. As much as he didn't want to suspect Sora or Matt of doing anything malicious now that they were both suffering post-break-up pains and temptations, he couldn't help but consider the possibility—not because Sora was going out of her way to be in his company, or being clingy or needy or flirting with him despite his taken status, but rather because _he_ felt uneasy about the flickers of familiar emotion stirring up in his chest whenever he saw her. He hadn't thought about the days he and Sora had dated since he and Hana had become a couple, but recently, they had resurfaced with a vengeance.

"Oh, I most certainly think they are using us," Hana claimed, fiercely annoyed by the prospect. "I'm pretty sure I should have made Matt think twice about where he was taking me before we left, but I just couldn't do it." She muttered a French oath under her breath while irritably rubbing the spot between her eyebrows. "He's been such a mess lately."

"Yeah," Tai reluctantly admitted. "Everything's plain screwed up."

"Well, then," Hana declared, resting her knuckles on her hips and jutting her chin, "we just need to fix everything ourselves." Her theatrical stance was surprisingly comical, posing her as some heroic figure of justice when she was but a petite girl in a purple dress.

He laughed for the first time that night.

"Is that new?" he asked, delighting in the way her eyes narrowed at the question. His lips curled into a cocky grin.

"The dress? Not for me, no," she answered wryly. "But new to _your_ eyes? Perhaps. You tell me. And what about you, Taichi?" she added, coming forward and hooking her finger under the first button of his shirt. "This button-down fits you remarkably well. Whoever got it for you must have excellent taste."

"In boyfriends, yes," he teased, tugging at her waist.

Her lips spread apart as she laughed, granting him a quick peek into her pink mouth, her retracted tongue. He had only run a hand up her neck, his thumb caressing the curve of her jaw when her laughter was cut short, broken by the shouts that echoed from the restaurant interior.

"Crap," he muttered. Hana expounded on it:

"_Merde_."

Tai wasted no time taking Hana's hand and leading the way back to their table, the craning heads of rubberneckers and the expanding nucleus of restaurant staff around their reserved seats further confirming their shared suspicions. For all their politeness and self-control, Matt and Sora had finally erupted—with the intensity of an atomic bomb.

"_Just stop!_" Sora screamed. "_I'm tired of hearing this!_"

"_That's just the thing!_" Matt yelled, strain vibrating in his voice. His hands flung into the air. "_How can you be tired of hearing it when you aren't even listening!_"

"Hey!"

Tai released Hana's hand and stepped in between Sora and Matt, daring to poke Matt in the chest with a stiff finger. He recognized the spark that ignited in Matt's cruelly blue eyes, and he steadied himself, prepared for a fight, when Hana easily covered Matt's clenched hand with her fingers and stepped in front of him, showing Tai her turned back.

The sudden affront left him balking, shock riddling his body as he gaped for air like a fish out of water. He didn't know what was worse. His girlfriend challenging him in public, or his girlfriend coming to the aid of his former best friend. The fists ready for retaliation loosened into flaccid hands. He was about to spring back with an order for Hana not to interfere, when Sora, swiftly deteriorating, brushed past them all and stumbled for the exit, her face buried in her hands.

"Sora!" Tai called. He hesitated a few seconds, having seen her walk away from him in that same manner too many times to believe he could be of any use.

"Go, Tai."

Hana's voice rang clear in the muted din of the restaurant. She stood in front of Matt, keeping him behind the forearm she had across his chest. Her green eyes implored Tai to pursue.

"I'll take care of Matt," she mouthed.

He wasn't convinced, but he nodded at her all the same, his feet taking him out the doors as he followed Sora's trail. She was openly weeping as she walked solo down the sidewalk, hugging her arms under the enormous heaviness of the night.

He didn't risk the chance of rejection by speaking first, by asking her questions he already knew the answer to. He didn't tap her on the shoulder as if she were a stranger standing in line. As soon as she was a hand's-breath away, he reached for her, gently wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders, drawing her into the safety of his embrace.

"_Sora…_" he sighed into her hair. She didn't fight him, didn't push him away. She clung to him in the same tight, steadfast manner one gripped a cliff edge by the fingertips, her arms shaking from the desperate effort. He let her tears spill onto his shirt, soaking the fabric through to the skin, let her weep continually into his steady heartbeat, "_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…_" until her voice failed her, and all that was left was its echo—mournful and vacant, like the dead hollowness of a dirge.

Eventually, she quieted, hiccupping only sporadically as Tai walked her back to their neighborhood. He didn't say anything to her, just held onto her hand, lending her strength through the connection. Once, his phone buzzed in his pocket and he let go of her momentarily to answer, flipping open the device to find a message from Hana.

_'Walking Matt back to his place. Will probably discuss the restaurant fiasco. Meet you at your house later?_'

As he contemplated his response, he blindly reached for Sora's hand again, but only secured in grazing her fingertips. She had crossed her arms, rubbing a quiet tear away from her cheek, and Tai had no choice but to shove his hand back in his pocket. He typed his reply to his girlfriend with a rapid pressing of his thumb.

_'Same here with Sora. I'll see you in a bit._'

Upon reaching their group of apartment complexes, he paused and asked her:

"Do you want to talk about it?"

For a moment, she said nothing, just stared at the ground, her eyes puffy with the buildup of saltwater. Then, miraculously, she nodded.

"Yeah," she said, and repeated it: "Yeah."

His home was dark upon entrance. A quick flip of the light switch illuminated a note on the dining table from his parents. In his dad's chicken scratch was written: '_Date night with your mother. Won't be back 'til late. Kari's sleeping over at Yolei's. Please call sometime before midnight to check on her._' Beneath the message, in his mother's loopy cursive, was a hastily scrawled post-script: '_And, no. That is not an invitation to have Hana over and alone with you for the three hours we'll be gone._'

Shooting a sigh through his nose, Tai crunched the paper up and tossed it in the trashcan, aware that Sora had sat herself gingerly on the living room couch. He suppressed the groan crawling up his throat and passed a hand through his bush of hair, pathetically letting the hackneyed gesture of hospitality leave his mouth:

"Did you want anything to drink?"

"No," she said, before he had even finished asking the question.

He knew she was zoning out, falling back into that isolated center of grief she had drifted into during lunch the other day. If he allowed her to fully submerge, she'd be irretrievable—and _he'd_ be useless.

"Sora."

He rounded the sofa and sat beside her, deciding to keep his hands to himself. But, left to their own devices, his hands kept rearranging themselves: clasped together under his chin one moment and then resting on his knees the next. Then, balled into fists. He hated seeing her so heartbroken. Helping her was like trying to glue the hundreds of shards of a broken vase back together. He didn't know where to begin. All he had to go off of was the image of her whole, her original state of being. If it had been up to him, he would have never allowed her to fall and splinter. If she had been his, he—

"Sora," he repeated, burying the warning spiraling in his mind. "You _need_ to talk to me. That's why I'm here. That's why I've _always_ been here. I _want_ to help you, but I can't if you don't guide me through your pain."

There was a testy silence, one that brimmed with the dark energy of several pent emotions. Patiently, he waited, feeling themselves sinking deeper into the deadened air.

"I don't know, Tai," she admitted, her clear voice a paltry whimper. "You think that when you break up with someone that it's final, that it's as simple as cutting a cord and letting it fall away, disjointed and separate from you. But it's not. I still feel like I'm dragging the two years of my life with him, like a lead ball chained to my feet."

Drops of water secretly splashed onto the hem of her dress, leaving needleprints of soaked crimson fabric.

"I've tried distancing him," she continued. "I don't talk to him. I try not to look at him. I stowed all of his music in a box and gave it to my mother to hide so that I would never find it, but then I go to sleep and his face is everywhere. I wake and all I see are these little black holes in my life, and by their sheer numbers alone, I end up feeling like half a person."

The back of her hand passed under her wrinkled nose, slid over the quivering mouth.

"I just don't know what to do anymore," she wept. "When I saw him with Hana, when he sat himself next to me, I just… It was all too much. I didn't know if I wanted to yell at him or embrace him or just fall apart at his feet. The moment he opened his mouth to talk to me, I lost it. It hurt me enough that he came to our favorite restaurant with another girl, hurt me enough that he had the nerve to speak to me about what happened when I told him it was over, hurt me that he was still trying… _still trying_…"

Her posture dissipated. She almost doubled full over, but Tai held her back. He took her gently by the shoulders, blocking her plummet into despair, ignoring the self-deprecation recklessly issuing from her lips:

"_I felt so unworthy, Tai, and I couldn't take it. I— _"

He cut her off.

"No, Sora," he declared. "Stop it. You're being unfair to yourself. Hell, Sora, you're the most thoughtful, caring, loving person I know! And I've known you for a _long_ time. Don't let him—or anybody—reduce you to anything less than that."

And then the question he himself feared was at last loosed into the air, launched with a desperate, dripping guilt that sickened him.

"_But what if I made a mistake?_" she cried. "_What if—_"

A tenseness gripped Tai's throat, nearly cutting off the flow of his words. His hold on her tightened only minimally, his stare leveling as he sought to break through her veil of tears.

"_That_ would be like saying Hana made a mistake breaking up with Ryo," he asserted grimly. His expression soured. "I don't think that's it."

Unblinkingly, motionlessly, Sora gazed at him, an unidentifiable haze clouding her eyes. She turned away from him, shrugging his hands off her as she stared fixedly at the floor, eyelids half-hooded.

"Feelings like this take time, Sora," he counseled, as gently as his tongue allowed him. She didn't look at him, but to give up on her was out of the question. Someone else had given up on her already, and he refused to be added to the list. He pressed forward.

"It takes a while to heal." His heart squeezed in his chest, pumping an influx of blood to his head. The dizzying pain of old memories assailed his mind. "I've… I've been there."

He stopped and tried to ignore the allusion he had carelessly let slide from his lips. But it was unavoidable. Mention of their break-up had been aired out, and it immediately invited the embarrassment of having to relive it in the flood of silence that followed.

Sora sniffled, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her posture improve. Her head turned to face him.

"I'm sorry I ever put you through that, Tai." Her voice was weary, saturated in regret. "It's… It's not a fun place to be."

He simpered brittley.

"It's… fine." He smiled for her, though the gesture felt mechanical. "It happened a long time ago."

"I know," she acknowledged. "But, still…"

'_Still what?'_ he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue. He refused to believe he was the only one between the two of them to parse through the pages of the past, searching for the chapter titled with their names.

The spell of another lengthy silence began to trickle down on them, and he stood before he could drown under its deluge.

"I want to show you something," he said.

Sora's head lifted, her eyes gazing upon him with openness and clarity.

"What?" she asked.

He smiled faintly and beckoned for her hand.

"That barrette you wore the other day reminded me of something," he explained, keeping his tone as jovial as possible. When her hand slid into his palm, he led her to his computer, aware she was eyeing him with the smallest hint of suspicion.

Moments later, he brought up a window on the waking screen, and Sora promptly covered her mouth with a hand, unable to peel her eyes away from monitor's hypnotizing glow.

"Oh, gosh," she groaned. "Is that the apology you emailed me over the hair clip?"

Tai chuckled lightly.

"Yep." He clicked and dragged the mouse to highlight a specific sentence. "'You say you love thunder showers, so what's a few raindrops between friends?'" he recited, side-glancing her. She laughed—weakly, at first, so that it sounded like she was choking, but her voice gathered conviction, and her giggles stabilized. Her eyes stared in short wonder at the fragment of their past.

"You have it memorized?" she asked.

"Tattooed on my chest, actually."

She laughed, heartier this time, and had to lean on the backrest of his chair lest she fall over.

"You're impossible." She paused and continued to look on over his shoulder. "And there's my reply… which I remember taking hours to write. I must have edited it a million times. I was so mad you."

"Yeah. You were. But, hey, what's a few—"

"Okay, you can stop now." She nudged him playfully on the side of the head. "Don't overdo it."

They spent a few minutes revisiting old exchanges, reacquainting themselves with the terrors of their early teens—instant messaging conversations, pictures taken on their dates, the countless apologies sent over petty resentments. He expected the experience to be painful, to punch him in the gut with the same, depressing feeling of upset that plagued him when she let him go, but it was extraordinarily liberating. It surprised him further that they were able to joke about it, poking fun at their selfish impulses, their insignificant problems, all while they sat, mesmerized before the screen, their knees occasionally touching, Sora absentmindedly reaching for the mouse while his hand still commanded it, their arms brushing several times as they gesticulated and pointed.

The evening ended with a search for the rest of the night's forecast, which, ironically (or serendipitously) predicted rain.

"Let's hope it doesn't start while I'm walking home," Sora commented idly, getting up from her chair.

Tai followed her to the front door, grabbing an umbrella from a stand by the coat closet.

"Let me walk you," he offered. His toes were already slipping into his shoes, but Sora stayed him with a hand. She chuckled uneasily.

"It's all right, Tai. I don't live ten blocks away. I live right across the street."

"Right."

He fake-coughed into a fist and handed her the umbrella.

"Just in case," he said.

Gratefully, she accepted it, her free hand meanwhile setting on the doorknob and giving it a twist. The night air gusted in, thickly humid but chill. She flinched slightly, and instinctively, he put a hand on her shoulder, missing the rounded curve of the joint and landing on the slope where the nape of the neck met the collar.

The upward flip of her hair tickled the back of his hand. She looked up at him, her expression soft, capable, unlike the cracking mask she had worn when she had stepped into his home.

"Thanks, Tai," she said. "I think a lot of people would have just pressed me for answers or given me advice that I've heard enough times to last me an eternity. But you didn't bother. You trusted in what you know would cheer me up, and it worked. Especially after the disaster at the restaurant. Really." She extended an arm and patted him gently on the cheek, like a mother beaming with pride for her son. "Thank you."

The touch of her hand on his face was both familiar and breathtakingly new, like the exhilarating jolt received when one finally found a long sought-after item or matched a face to a name. As her hand began to slip away, he reached for it, keeping it suspended, millimeters away from his skin.

"That's why I'm here, Sora," he said quietly.

Her reply was as thin and fragile as a thread of silk, its delivery tacit and hushed.

"I know," she said, and her head bent low, her eyes shaded under humbled eyelids. Her regret drew him in, her shame summoning the integral part of him that would counteract her compunction, restore balance to her half-empty life. It pulled on him like a line and hook in the eye. Resistance was painful.

He didn't know when his forehead had touched hers, or when the gush of rain hailed them from above, hitting the ground and the side of the building in quick, sharp jabs. Nor did he know how the wave fell into place, seconds building atop one another, time teetering until all awareness of it vaporized into mist. The world went black. He closed his eyes. And he could feel breath on his face—indistinguishable—obliterated with a lurch, warmth on his lips before light spiked through his eyelids, striking him with terrifying clarity.

There was a gasp, distant but able to scrape the inside of his ear. His heart hammered in his chest. The details before him were read from the view of a man waking up from a daze—with confusion, panic. The evidence was glaring. His head whirled. Sora looked away from him, her hand over her mouth.

In the crush of rain, he caught the streak of green, heard the drag of a pair of feet, and his lungs capsized when he found her, standing but ten paces away, her body petrified in motion.

_Hana_.


	5. Dissent: Part III

**Disclaimer****: The 'lyrics' used are not mine. They aren't even lyrics. They are lines from a poem, **_**Poema XX**_** by Pablo Neruda. Feel free to read it prior or afterwards (in the original Spanish or its English translation). But I don't recommend it if you are opposed to overly sentimental, sappy romantic poetry. **

**A/N****: So… I lied! I wanted this to be the last part, but it ended up being too freakishly long. So you will get a Part IV—which is already written. There is A LOT of dialogue in this monster, so I apologize if the chapter stagnates halfway through. Though, we get Matt's testimony on things, so I hope that's a valid excuse. Happy reading! And thank you in advance for your wonderful readership and reviews! **

xXx

_- Dissent - _

_(Part III) _

xXx

"**H**elp me out here, Koushiro."

Tai murmured the words into the lunch table, his body bent in the standard pose of the woestruck. There had been no preface to the plea. Tai just dumped himself in the seat opposite and smacked his forehead on the tabletop.

"I would if you provided me with some background on the problem," Izzy replied.

"Like you don't know," Tai grumbled.

Reluctantly, Izzy shut the mobile phone he had had open on his lap under the table. His message to Mimi would have to wait, though he was somewhat ashamed that he was keeping their distant fashion expert informed of the developing drama between their mutual friends. It made him feel no better than the many established gossipers in their school, but Mimi was not the type of girl to keep secrets from, especially when they concerned her friends.

"Do you want my honest opinion, Tai?" Izzy asked.

The soccer captain lifted his head and glared at him through a pair of dulled, sleep-deprived brown eyes.

"No, Izzy," Tai snarked. "I want you to freaking lie to me and tell me my day will be full of laughter and piss-yellow sunshine. Of course I want your honest opinion!"

Izzy took the sneer like a titanium wall took a bullet. He didn't even blink.

"Very well…" he said, bumping his fist to his lips.

His dark eyes glanced at the empty seat to his left, a space once, but briefly, occupied by a certain blond musician before he relocated to another table.

"Tai," Izzy resumed, returning his stare. "You need to talk to Matt."

A bald order merited just as barefaced a reply. Tai's face puckered dramatically, revolted by the prospect, as if the suggestion were a glass wall he had suddenly collided into, leaving spit and a greasy print of his face on the pane.

"_What?_" he shouted. "_That's_ your advice? To talk to the guy who started this entire mess?"

"I hardly think you're in a position to be pointing fingers," Izzy duly countered. Tai threw him a dark look. "My suggestion holds. Talk to Matt."

Groaning, Tai rubbed his face with both hands. Izzy counted the number of swipes. _One… Two…Threefourfive._

On the fifth, Tai expelled an agitated breath and childishly blew a raspberry through his pouting lips.

"Just… Just run your logic by me, Koushiro," he replied, grimacing. His fingers were removed from his face, and he looked genuinely pained, with a hand on his chest like a man suffering heart murmurs.

"The parallels aren't that difficult to draw," Izzy explained. He leaned back, deluding himself into thinking that distance from the torchbearer of teenage bedlam would grace him with a much needed objectivity. "From what Sora's told you, you believe Matt cheated on her. He was caught with another girl. Now, let's condense _your_ experience from this past weekend. Based on what Ha—" He stopped short. "—_hearsay_ has said," he amended, "you were found Friday night, kissing a girl who was _not_ Hana. Sora, specifically. And your girlfriend caught you."

He waited a moment for the information to sink through Tai's impermeable skull. He didn't fancy himself an expert in human behavior like Hana's ex-boyfriend, but his (wisely) limited involvement in his friends' turmoil left him a bystander—a witness to details each fighting party was too emotionally wracked to see.

It was why he was careful not to let it on that he and Hana had spoken, as it was evident by the way that Hana avoided Tai completely in the hallways and ignored his phone calls and texts that the two had had _zero_ communication since the scandal had happened. Tai was not the severely jealous type, but such information would have driven him to think that Izzy had chosen a side, which he hadn't. Though, Izzy was admittedly troubled when Hana related her version of events to him over a tutoring session. She had been surprisingly tearless throughout the retelling. Her demeanor, certainly, was less cheerful, but she had spoken calmly. Her voice was controlled. She hadn't appeared so much upset by Tai's sudden infidelity as she was resigned to it. The entire ordeal was offensively baffling.

Tai's incompetent defense drew Izzy's attention.

"It's not the same," he said.

Not one muscle twitched in Izzy's face, but his fingers curled under the palm of the hand he had on the table. The look exchanged between the two of them was held unflinchingly and for an extended period of time, as if they were partaking in the most hostile of staring contests.

Izzy blinked first.

"I'm going to use a phrase here that you're not going to appreciate, Tai, as it was said by your girlfriend." He allowed a gap of silence should Tai feel inclined to protest. He didn't. Izzy continued. "History doesn't—and _shouldn't_—be used to justify what you did."

His eyes didn't pry away from Tai in the seconds that followed, but the world shook abruptly, the fist that smacked the tabletop as swift and disorienting as an earthquake. Izzy jumped and landed in his seat so quickly that the impact of the plastic on his bony rear could be felt zigzagging painfully up his spine.

"_Don't_ compare me to her dick of an ex-boyfriend, Ryo-effing-Hiraki, Izzy," Tai seethed. "_He_ kept his affair behind her back. The chick _he_ cheated on Hana with was someone _he_ didn't know—never had feelings before previously—_just like Matt_. Did _Matt_ know the girl he was sucking face with when Sora came to his show? No. He didn't."

Izzy kept his lips tightly shut, barring the departure of a snappy remark that would only make Tai's rage flare out. He had been on the receiving end of Tai's anger on several occasions and was thankful for the conditioning. Otherwise, his insides would have liquefied at the sight before him.

The fist on the table was nearly bruise-purple from being squeezed, the limb jittering with seizure-like twitches. When Izzy refused to comment, the anger ebbed, draining out of Tai like a bad humor. His whole body seemed to deflate, and he sank back into his seat, his head once again finding solace in the cradle of his hands.

"Izzy, you _knew_ how I felt about Sora for a long time," said Tai, speaking to the table. "You can't—"

"It's not the specifics of your actions that I'm questioning, Tai," Izzy interjected, finding his opening now that Tai had calmed down. "The truth of the matter is that you, for a brief second—possibly for even just _one_ second—cheated on Hana. On a basic level, you are on the same tier as Matt and Ryo Hiraki. _That_ is something you need to acknowledge, or you won't get anywhere—not with Sora, not with Matt, and definitely not with Hana." He paused, his brow furrowing as he watched Tai slowly adhere his forehead back to the table surface, relinquished to the superiority of his reason.

"Then what the hell do I do, Koushiro?" he pleaded desperately. It almost sounded like he was crying.

The bell ending lunch rang overhead. Izzy stood, pocketing his phone and moving over to Tai's side of the table. He extended an arm, his fingers gripping Tai by the shoulder. Just the slightest pressure was applied as Izzy looked down at him, the wrinkles on his brow changing from those of contempt to concern. His aim wasn't to comfort or cajole. It was to encourage.

"Tai," he repeated, nudging him, "you need to talk to Matt."

xXx

'_Tonight I can write the saddest lines…_'

It had become his nightly prayer, the hymn recited under the breath before he fell into a fitful slumber, the message he wrote at the top of every blank page.

It was also a lie. Every subsequent lyric he concocted within the chaos of his brain was more depressing than its predecessor. Reading them made him want to vomit. The sentimentality that oozed from his drying pens, the hyper-emotive, sickly sweet poetry. Everything he couldn't express in person or reveal in spoken speech wasted out of his hands, coursed through ink, and dripped into puddled graves on paper, where they lay as restlessly as he did.

Singing became both torture and catharsis. He was adamant about keeping his music private. Even his father was forbidden to listen. He'd lock himself in his room, stuff a towel in the gap under the door, shut all windows, and when his mouth parted and his fingers plucked the strings of his guitar, he could hardly recognize the voice that left him. It was a pathetic, puling noise, wan and distant, as if he were the listener, _not_ the musician—the sole witness to a wolf crying out in the night.

He had made the mistake of leaving his notebook out and open on the dining room table when he and Hana had gone back to his apartment Friday night. She had seen it and had slyly pored through it while he carped about his idiotic behavior at the restaurant. Halfway through, and his rant was interrupted by Hana furiously shaking the little booklet at him.

"Don't touch that," he snapped. He snatched it out of her grasp and glared at her, his lips conditioned to berating, as he had been doing it to himself for the past fifteen minutes. "You have no right going through my things, Hana. This is private."

Her petite frame took on an ironic amount of formidability.

"Then why leave it open on the table?" she challenged.

"I live alone most of the day, okay?" he cheaply contested. "I don't have people going in and out of my house. If I did, this would be locked up somewhere where no one else could find it."

"Well, it's a bit late for that now, Yamato," she had said. It was insulting how easily she dismissed his reasoning. "I saw it. I read the last song you wrote, and I think you need to do something about it."

"Like what?" he sneered. "Sing it for Sora?" He laughed condescendingly. "Right. You saw what happened at the restaurant, Hana. She'll never talk to me again—ever."

"I never said anything about talking, Matt."

He scoffed.

"Oh. So you want me to serenade her with this pathetic drivel? This melodramatic, emo crap I've written out?" The notebook was waved aggressively in front of her face before he threw it back on the table. "You just don't get it, do you? What Sora and I had has _completely_ disassembled. It's been picked apart, atom by atom. _I've _been picked apart." His voice increased in volume. Every feeling experienced within the past few weeks—the anger, the frustration, the helplessness—lashed out of him, stampeding over reason, over gentility, over kindness. "You try solving a puzzle with a billion pieces!" he shouted. "You can't fix something that doesn't exist anymore! _Stop trying!_"

The words had barely left his lips before something pelted him across the face—hard—accompanied by a sound not unlike the crack of a whip. He almost thought he had been cut, but when his fingers trembled up to his cheek, all he could feel was a sting on the skin, blush rushing to the assaulted area, and Hana standing bravely in front of him, her elbow jutting, and her eyes a mad, heady green.

"How in the hell are you supposed to ever get over Sora when you can't even get over yourself, Matt?" she yelled. Her voice struck his ears stridently, though their echo was foreboding and deep, like the sonorous mashing of piano keys. "For God's sake, you stand there beating yourself up and pegging yourself as the loser, and you _dare_ to wonder why Sora doesn't want you back?"

Her words wrapped around his neck like a noose. He could feel himself wilting. For weeks the hollowness growing in him had been accepted, nurtured with a negativity he himself generously supplied, and now he was being called to defend it, to root it in something incontrovertible.

Her presence was suddenly and extremely unwanted. But he couldn't even muster the gall to send her away. He only backed away from her, his spine meeting the resistance of a wall as he summoned the will to reply.

"Because that's what I am, Hana," he said. "_I_ gave up on Sora. _I_ gave up on our relationship. Hell, _I_ gave up on _us!_ I don't deserve her. I never did."

"That isn't up for you to decide," she said. "If Sora found you worth it, then you are, Matt. The least you can do is honor the fact that she thought that way about you."

"The key word is 'thought,'" he spat. "It's past tense. She doesn't feel that way about me anymore."

"Then let's turn the tables around, shall we?" She tilted her head to the side, in the direction of the dining room table, her hand, meanwhile, turning palm up as her index finger curled and beckoned him.

Grudgingly, he obeyed her, and he plopped himself down in the chair she pulled out for him. She didn't sit but continued to stand by him, like a police officer in charge of interrogating a criminal. The cards from Sora's gifts were still spread out on the table, and he glared at them to avoid meeting Hana's prying green eyes.

"Let's make this not about you, Yamato," she began. She sounded like her ex-boyfriend, her speech taking on an uncharacteristic lightness, a maturity that was evidently contrived. Delicately, she picked up one of the cards. Her fingers fondly swept over the surface. "Let's make it about Sora," she resumed. "How much does she mean to you?"

He snorted subtly, as if the question were as easy as two plus two. And it was.

"She's worth _everything_ to me," he said.

"Well, that was easy," she murmured under her breath. He frowned. "There's only one acceptable answer to that, Matt," she said. Gently, she touched him on the shoulder, bending lower to look at his face. "If Sora is worth everything to you," she repeated, and her green eyes locked on his, "then you'd better start acting like it."

If she had been fishing for the last word, he would not surrender it to her.

"It's not that simple," he countered.

She was barely discouraged. The smile she gave him was thin, secretive—taunting, even. This was a game she was used to playing, and one, he gathered, that she won on many occasions.

"I never said it would be, Matt," she said. "But based on what I saw tonight,"—she poked him in the chest, her fingertip absorbing a heartbeat—"you and Sora are equally lost without each other. It's easy to continue down that path separately, to focus on yourself since being lost entails isolation. But it takes guts to admit that maybe you're not the only one walking this road. Sora's lost, too, Matt."

"And what do you want me to do, Hana?" he asked, scornfully. "Be lost _with_ her?"

She shook her head, giggling faintly.

"You could, yes." She shrugged casually, the words that eventually left her lips riding on the breath she exhaled. "Or you could, you know, just… _be_ with her."

xXx

'_I loved her and sometimes, she loved me too_.'

He barely detected the buzz of the intercom or the repeated whacks on his front door. The noise only penetrated through the walls of his closed room and the thick barrier of his music when he paused from play, his guitar limp in his grasp. He had been staring vacantly out his window, his mind returning to Hana's words from Friday night. The temptation to call her for encouragement tugged at him, and he probably would have if he hadn't heard the disruptions on his doorstep.

The guitar was hesitantly set aside, and he exited his bedroom and proceeded to the front door. Without so much as a peek into the peephole, he unlocked it.

"We need to talk."

The voice was almost unfamiliar. Matt hadn't heard it in weeks, and its abrupt arrival had him experiencing a strange mix of fear and irritation. If he hadn't been immersed in musical therapy prior, he would have been tempted to slam the door shut, but he let the moment of anger pass through him, let it work its course through his body before his tenseness slacked and his hand slowly released its hold on the door edge.

He sighed.

"Come in, Tai."

Wordlessly, Matt led the way to the expected discourse venue: the dining table. He turned once to see if Tai was following him. The brown-haired teen had paused by the kitchen, his eyes trained on the recycling bin. Matt followed the trajectory of Tai's stare and his gaze settled on the overflowing pile of empty bottles and cans—all of which previously held questionable content.

"Your liver still intact?" Tai asked.

"It's not what you're thinking," Matt replied. "When Hana came here Friday night after the restaurant debacle, she took it upon herself to dump all the alcohol in my house down the drain, claiming that it would be good for the both of us, considering…" His voice trailed when he realized that Tai wasn't looking at him. He was still staring at the shells of alcoholic drinks. Matt cleared his throat. "My dad wasn't happy about it, but today I found an envelope in my locker from her containing repayment."

Tai nodded subtly, the sort of absentminded bob of the head that suggested attentiveness when in reality it was anything but.

"Have you talked to Hana lately?" he said at last.

"No," answered Matt. "Not since Friday night."

There was a pause.

"Why?" Matt continued, an eyebrow rising in curiosity. "Has she not talked to you?"

"No."

"Because of me?"

Another pause.

"No."

"Then what?"

Tai idly swung his leg, scuffing the heel of his socked foot against the wood floors. His lips twisted, pursed, and pinched under the bite of his upper teeth. Throughout, he avoided eye contact as transparently as he eluded the subject of their conversation. A hand gradually rose to cover the twitching mouth, and when at last he spoke, his words came muffled through his fingers.

"I kissed Sora."

Matt shook his head—jerkily—like someone fighting a seizure or the snare of a dream.

"What?"

The hand was removed.

"I kissed Sora, Matt," Tai repeated. The statement lacked definitiveness, as if fissures had invaded its foundation, prepping it for collapse. He swallowed. "And Hana saw it."

From Matt's distance, it looked as though Tai's brown eyes had moistened, and his face soured at the sight. There were many ways he could have responded to the confession. He imagined himself rushing toward Tai and seizing him by the shirt collar, demanding to know why he would move on so quickly to make claims on his ex-girlfriend. He could have yelled at him—"_What the hell did you think you were doing!_" He could have punched him, too. But for some odd reason, Matt acted on none of those impulses. He simply stood where he was, his hands in his pockets, eyeing Tai with a burning disappointment, perhaps even a dash of sympathy.

"Sit down, Tai," was all Matt could say.

Tai's steps dragged as he joined Matt at the dining table. He rested his head on the arms he folded across the tabletop, completely oblivious to the spread of cards on the surface. Matt took the seat adjacent.

"Did Izzy tell you to come talk to me?" he asked. It was all he could think of to keep themselves from simmering uncomfortably in silence.

Tai nodded.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Nothing." Matt gazed out the living room window. His fingers tapped against his thighs under the table. "He just messaged me earlier saying that I might have a visitor later on. I thought he meant T.K. or Hana."

A twitch zipped through Tai at the mention of the latter. It wouldn't have been the first time Tai had confided in him about arguments he had had with Hana. Their relationship could still be classified as being in the honeymoon phase, but Tai and Hana were evenly matched when it came to their fights—something they seemed to be doing a lot more often.

"What happened this time, Taichi?" Matt asked.

The initial reply was a noncommittal grunt, followed by:

"You tell me."

"What?"

Tai lifted his head, his dark eyebrows bent on a steep incline, his face stiff and set.

"You tell me what happened between you and Sora," he began, stating his terms, "and I'll return the favor."

The fingers Matt drummed against his pant legs stopped. They lay flat for a second before they curled inward, hooking cloth under the pull of his fingernails. Tai had made it clear from the beginning that his side of the story hadn't mattered, and now, all of sudden, he was eager to know his version of the truth.

Matt stood up from his chair, the legs screeching against the wood floor, and turned his back to Tai. His fists were shoved into his pockets.

"I was under the impression that you already knew what happened between me and Sora," he replied acidly. "Why do you want my side of things?"

Tai's response was powerfully quick.

"Because nothing makes sense," he said. His tone was earnest, ringed with a near romantic simplicity. "Your break up with Sora, Matt. It makes _no _sense. That sort of thing is for couples like me and Hana. But they're not for you. They were never meant to be for you."

Matt's jaw tightened on instinct, his teeth grinding to chalk under the pressure. Bitterly, he looked at the cards on the table.

"We've been having problems longer than you suspect, Tai. You think that just because Sora and I hold hands in public or don't openly bicker like you and Hana that our relationship is _perfect_?"

"But hasn't it always been like that?" Tai naively wondered. "Isn't that what everyone thinks?"

Matt turned away sharply.

"It's not," he said darkly. "It was far from it." He paused, taking a moment to sort his emotions using an understandable medium.

"We were the illusion that everyone believes, Tai," he said at last. "Everyone supposes that just because we're not vocal or expressive about our problems that our lives must be going on in perfect harmony. But do you have _any_ idea what that kind of pressure does to you?"

He pivoted on his heel and they locked eyes.

"Two years of it and you start deluding yourself into thinking that nothing is wrong. You get complacent—even though I told myself I never would—but at some point—you don't even know _when_, it creeps up on you—the communication slacks. You get used to the feel of a hand in your own. You register it as your own flesh and bone—part of you but so natural a sensation that you're in danger of taking advantage of it. You hear people say, '_Matt and Sora are so perfect for each other. They work so well_,' and the compliments _wound_ you."

Anxiously, he shuffled within a narrow, self-imposed perimeter no larger than three feet. One hand restlessly passed through his hair. The other jabbed at his chest repeatedly, sounding a hollow thud again and again.

"You don't _want_ to give in to the temptation of agreement because you know deep inside that a relationship is never effortless. You start to trust too much in what other people think, and when the signs of dissent start to show, you bury them away, convinced that you're hallucinating. Instead of being a participant in the relationship, you remove yourself, place yourself as an outsider, sharing the same view as the rest of the spectators. You think: _nothing is wrong_. And when nothing changes—when you don't argue, when every day goes by like all the rest, those three words become your mantra. _Nothing is wrong_."

His pacing halted. The floor creaked beneath his weight, and he sighed, expelling all the air out of him until he was sure his lungs were flattened wings of skin.

"But something was," Tai observed.

Matt nodded, his face tensing against the pain of such an admission.

"Perhaps it would have never been realized, either, had you and Hana not gotten together," he added dourly. "That's when things really fractured.

Tai's spine straightened.

"_What?_" he blurted. "You're _blaming_ us?

"I didn't mean it like that," Matt said. "Sometimes comparison is unavoidable. You and Hana are so free with your expressions. You don't give a crap what other people think when you're out together. If you're going to run in the rain, you're going to do it. If you're going to kiss her smack in the middle of the hallway, then you're going to kiss her. Sora noticed it. How could anyone _not_ notice it? That's the thing about you and Hana, Tai. _You don't hide_. Everyone is exposed to the nuances of your affection whether they want to or not, and Sora was no exception. You know how she is. She's sensitive to those sorts of things—hell, she watches dramas with Yolei, and Hana got her into reading those God awful teen romances. You know how much she cares about you and Hana—all of her friends, really. She invests in the happiness of others. That's just the way she is."

His pacing picked up again.

"Naturally," he continued, "she drew parallels. Or maybe she never did, but she was reminded of our early days, the infancy of our relationship where, while not perfect, we were beautifully happy. Sora began to drop hints about being a little more adventurous, a little more spontaneous—" His stare swerved to catch Tai's gaze. "—like you guys.

"But I got irritated by the prospect," he confessed, his voice oozing resentment. "From my end of things, everything was fine. Why did we have to be like other couples? We were our own entity. But I could tell that she was giving it serious thought, reevaluating her level of happiness with me. Maybe when she saw you and Hana, she was reminded of that butterfly feeling in the gut, that nauseating excitement when you see the person you love. But for us, it had become routine. She _was_ my routine, Tai. You don't know how ingrained she was in my life, like she was threaded into my own freaking DNA. Two years can do that to you. Maybe I didn't get nervous when she approached. Maybe the kisses we exchanged were lacking in passion, but I never stopped loving her. Never.

"But she seemed restless. Upset that I didn't share her view that we could be a little more like you and Hana. I wanted our relationship to be distinct from everybody else's. Keeping that integrity was important to me. I kept telling her that. _We're not Tai and Hana, Sora. We're __not__._ What good does it do trying to fit a mold that isn't cut out for us? And she would tell me: _how can you possibly know when you don't even want to try?_"

Tai asked the obvious.

"So why didn't you?"

"I didn't see the point," Matt replied. "If we start living our relationship based on other people's standards, what does that say about us? That our foundation was never solid enough to begin with. No one wants to admit that. To acknowledge that, from the start, there were cracks. It was easier to think everything was fine."

There was a reflective pause, akin to the disturbing stillness that preluded a storm. Slowly, Matt spread his hands flat on the table, fingertips brushing over the display of cards. He spoke to Sora's handwriting—the neat, infinitely repeated script of "_To Matt_" scattered across the tabletop like stars in the sky.

"About a month ago my band had a booking that would take us out of town," he uttered, beginning again. "It wasn't anything new. I've had to tell Sora plenty of times that I'd be gone for the weekend, and she'd be fine with it. Never fought it. Never. And that time she didn't, either. Akira's girlfriend and some of her friends joined us, which made me sick in the stomach—made me feel bad that I didn't invite Sora on these trips. But I didn't want to make her look like just another ditzy fan girl. She's my girlfriend, not part of my entourage. Not my groupie. I take my relationship with her very seriously, Tai. It's why we keep things as private as possible, to keep what happens between us, _between us_.

"The performance was well-received. Spent roughly an hour afterwards doing fan service. Pictures. Autographs. Networking. Afterwards, Akira, Takashi, and Yutaka wanted to celebrate in the breakroom. Akira's girlfriend had smuggled in alcohol. She had a friend of hers there—from out of the country. She was visiting. Her other two friends hooked up with Takashi and Yutaka, leaving me and her the only other people unpaired. They were completely tanked by that point, egging me on to have a little fun since Sora wasn't there. I told them to piss off. I wouldn't go within ten leagues of her. She overheard and took it as an insult, thought I had called her ugly or something, and she ran out of the breakroom.

"I…" Matt swallowed. He hadn't anticipated the retelling of events to leave so bad an aftertaste in his mouth. Nausea bled down the length of his nose, and he fought down a dry heave. "I… I felt… _bad_," he said lamely. "I really did, Tai. She was a girl in a foreign country. Knew next to no one aside from Akira's stupid girlfriend. And she'd leave with a horrible experience because of me. So I… I went after her. Just to explain to her that I wasn't insulting her with what I said. I told her I had a girlfriend. She must have misinterpreted my meaning because the first thing she did after I apologized was ask me why said girlfriend wasn't with me.

"The only excuse I could think of was, '_She's her own person. She has her own plans for this weekend. I don't need her to be here with me all the time._' And so then she asked me why I didn't just 'be my _own_ man' and make plans that didn't involve my girlfriend." He was surprised to find himself laughing—bitterly, hollowly, so thoroughly ashamed of himself that the only remedy he found was to mock himself and his bottomless stupidity. "I couldn't believe she had the gall to say those words to me. She made Sora sound like a crutch—that maybe the reason our relationship was going flat was because I was afraid of doing anything to upset her, of putting what we had on the line for the sake of progression. Sora's happiness was so paramount to me that it crushed my own. But I didn't think I was unhappy, Tai. No one thinks they're unhappy when they're caught in that apathetic, complacent drift. Normalcy is the illusion there. It's what you eat, sleep, and breathe, but in that moment, that girl—_a complete stranger_—reminded me of my individuality. That, as a person standing in that hallway by the breakroom, separate from Sora, I was miserable. I was exhausted from the show. I was annoyed with my bandmates. I was lonely for Sora. And I had taken too long to think." He lowered his head, hiding his face beneath a hand, which proved to be an ineffectual shield to his shame. His body shuddered as he spoke.

"Before I knew it," he recounted, "I felt her hands on my face, my chest, felt her fingers running through my hair. It was paralyzingly frightful that feeling, of having unfamiliar hands touch you so intimately. The novelty of it made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. It made me wonder if this was the feeling Sora wanted rekindled, that shocking sense of newness. When she kissed me, pushed me against the wall, my shirt tightly in her grip, I didn't… _God_… I didn't push her away."

The room quieted, every object in the vicinity padded with silence save for the ticking hands of a clock. It tapped seconds away like beads of water dripping from a leaky faucet or a human eye. Matt couldn't bear to look Tai in the face. He could feel the brown stare on the side of his head, the gaze as searing and precise as a laser point. The diatribe he waited for, his breathing regulated in anticipation of Tai's rant on his infidelity, but no words came. Commentary had been withheld, postponed until he justified his crimes. Matt didn't know if such a grace was mercy or a running start from the anger that was bound to follow, but he found himself speaking nonetheless.

"Fate has a sick sense of humor," he said. "The moment the kiss happened, I heard it: the soft gasp. The drop of a box on the floor. When I saw Sora's face at the other end of the hallway, everything else faded from existence. _It was just her_. The look she gave me was like a bullet shot smack in my chest. I wasn't even sure if it was really her on the other side. I thought she was at home, hanging out with you maybe, or having a girly sleepover with Hana and Yolei and Kari. But she wasn't. She was _right there_ in front of me. Who knows how many lies she had to tell in order to get there by herself? How long had she planned on coming? The train tickets she bought? The commute she made entirely alone for my sake? And I _knew_ in that instant why she came to see me, Tai. She wanted adventure. She wanted surprise. She wanted to revive that spark between us. She went above and beyond to do exactly that. And _how_ do I repay her for her love?"

He laughed. It was unbecoming, rude, crass. But he couldn't help the reflex. It was either that or cry, and he had already done that in front of Hana. Still, saltwater boiled behind his eyes. His laughter cheapened at the invading sting and its accompanying blur.

"I repay her by kissing another girl." He looked down at the cards on the table and brushed a few aside. "I blew it all up in her face."

"Is that what you were trying to explain to Sora at the restaurant?" asked Tai. "What happened that ni—"

Matt interrupted him.

"No," he said. "Sora and I have dissected that night piece by piece. There's nothing to say about it. I knew exactly what was going through her mind when she saw me. I could feel her thoughts coursing through my brain even as I ran after her. I knew the doubts that flooded her mind—_maybe he's been doing this all along, maybe this is why he never wants me to come see his shows out of town, maybe this is why he doesn't want—doesn't need—that flare of passion between us because he gets it from some other girl, and I'm just his pretty trophy, his pillar of normalcy, his memorial of consistency._

"Hell, Tai, I felt like _I_ was crying _her_ tears. _That_ was how keenly I felt her betrayal, but what could I sputter except for her name and a bunch of worthless apologies? You'd be surprised how few words there are to express emotion that extreme. The kiss was just the catalyst, but all the problems that led up to our break-up had been there, churning beneath the façade of our 'perfect' relationship. Her desire to change what we had. My desire not to do a single thing. Her unhappiness with my disapproval. My unhappiness with her insistence.

"She called it off that night. I stole a six-pack from Akira's girlfriend and spent the rest of my night alone. The following day, Sora called me back, said that we could work it out, that she didn't care about the kiss. But I was still sore and hungover from the night prior. I told her that if she had just told me what she had planned on doing, none of that would have happened. What did she really think surprising me would accomplish? No good ever came from keeping secrets. And she asserted that she was just trying to liven up our pathetic love life. Instill some fire in what had otherwise gone ice cold. She said she wanted what you and Hana had. She wanted that back. And I just… I couldn't understand _why. _And I didn't bother to, not at that time, no. Not when it would have meant something. I told her that if she wanted our relationship to be like the one you and Hana had, then she might as well have dated you and not me.

"She was appalled that I had said that to her. She told me I was missing the point. She said that out of the two of us, _she_ was the only one trying to bring our relationship back to its highest peak. I wasn't trying at all. According to her, I wasn't trying to save what was falling through my fingers like sand. And I asked her, why should I save our relationship according to the skewed belief that things would improve if we were only more like so-and-so and less like our freaking selves? As if we could ever stop being what and who we are.

"That sealed it. I still remember the clack of the phone as she slammed it down on its stand, like a bone being snapped in half. The dead, buzzing sound that came from her end after she had hung up lingered in my nightmares for weeks. In one instant, two years dissolved into a black, humming void, and it's been living inside me like a cancer ever since."

Matt sat back down, swapping positions with Tai. Where Tai had entered the conversation with his head resting on the table, now Matt was the despondent one, prostrated in disgrace. In contrast, Tai sat erect in his chair, his eyebrows inflexibly wrinkled, the corners of his eyes pinched in cruel scrutiny.

"That wasn't at all what Sora told me," he said, at length. His voice was tenuously uncertain, still reluctant to admit his error in judgment.

Matt exhaled sharply through his nose.

"I know what she told you," he retorted. "She wouldn't have confessed to you the heart of the matter. You'd feel guilty about it. Think that it was yours or Hana's or both of your faults that we were having this crisis. She wanted to spare you that. I guess she didn't count on you raging about it afterwards. Though, Izzy says that it makes sense that you would. You didn't exactly think Ryo cheating on Hana was a dandy thing, and for that to repeat to another girl in your life whom you loved and still love, I'm sure, is pure cause for anger. It's why I didn't care that you hated me, Tai. I deserved it."

Tai scoffed and shook his head lightly, confusion replacing his incredulity.

"But you still love Sora, don't you?" he questioned. "Why else would you be sulking around like this?" He stopped, the grooves on his forehead smoothing as his final question left his lips, spoken with more care and hesitance than his previous inquiries. "Why bring Hana into this?"

Slowly, Matt leaned back in his seat, his blue eyes finding Tai beneath the strands of blond hair that fell over his brow. The air until then had been relatively free of additional tension, but introducing another girl into the conversation multiplied the edginess tenfold. He himself wasn't sure what Tai knew and did not know about what happened the night Hana first stopped by. Their conversation had suddenly taken on the shape of a battlefield, the ground entrenched with landmines that could be triggered with the slightest misstep.

He ventured carefully.

"Don't make it sound like I always planned on confiding in her, Tai. I have Izzy. I have my brother. I talked to them both, but Izzy could only offer me the obvious logic—if I love Sora, I need to tell her. But communicating that in words isn't enough at this point. An apology won't cut it, not for a chasm that runs this deep. And T.K…" He sighed. "He's too young to be exposed to any of this. I know he looks up to me and Sora as an example for his relationship with Kari. I don't want to cast any shadow of doubt on him. There's only so much I can share." His eyes dropped. "As for Hana, she was the only one to really seek me out. To take an interest in my side of the story. And if _she_, Tai, if _she_ the 'victim' of being cheated on by a past boyfriend, found it in her heart to console _me_, the cheater?" He simpered condescendingly. "What does that say about your girlfriend, Tai?"

He watched as the brown eyes widened before a blink robbed them of their surprise. Shamed into silence, Tai cast his stare away and twiddled his thumbs continually on the table. His lips worked to assemble a comment that still seemed far away from completion.

Matt risked speaking further.

"I never expected Hana to be the easily forgiving type. Even after that night I invited her over to talk, after I had gotten her drunk and made a pass at her, she still didn't shun me. She even forgave me on the spot when I approached her with an apology the following day."

"You… _what?_" Tai echoed, his voice thinning. "You… You made a _pass_ at her?"

"It's not what you're thinking," he said, daring to look Tai in the eye. He knew avoiding the glower would only add to his suspicion, and he needed Tai to trust him. "She was drunk. I was, too. My mind was a mess, my brain a heap of crap. It's no excuse, I know, but you reach a point where your pill of self-loathing is swallowed whole and without question. You convince yourself you're a dick, and so you act like one…. Until someone slaps some sense into you—something Hana also did." He rubbed his cheek as he recollected the hit he took from Hana's small, quick hand. "You're girlfriend knows how to pack a punch."

"I wouldn't know," Tai said miserably, his glare softening as he looked back at his hands. "She spared me that when she saw me kiss Sora."

Matt bit into his nether lip as he peered at Tai from his side of the table. He should have been angry. Tai's history with Sora was no news to him, but he hadn't expected Tai to stoop so low as to make a move on her. He had Hana, after all. The flood of fury Matt anticipated to sweep through him, to make his hands bundle into fists, wasn't coming. All he could decipher from hearing Tai's confession was a disturbingly familiar remorse. He felt sorry for him.

"Why'd you do it, then?" he asked.

"What?"

"Taichi," Matt said, "you still need to uphold your end of the bargain. You admitted to kissing my ex-girlfriend—the girl I've loved for the past two years. I think I deserve an explanation."

Tai deflected, as was typical of him, and threw a scowl at the cards he hadn't even noticed were spread over the table. A hand clutched at his hair, tugging at the strands absentmindedly, before his fingers swept down his face.

"You already know why, Yamato," he replied, growling. "There's nothing to explain. Sometimes you can't help the what-ifs. Sometimes the only way to know what you _have_ is what you _want_ is to chance it. Hana and I have been fighting a lot recently. You hit a low, and you wonder. If you're stupid, like me, you do more, and you find out. That's it."

Matt remained doubtful. His stare sharpened.

"Even after everything you did to finally be with her?" he challenged. "Even after _all_ the hate you threw on her ex-boyfriend for cheating on her? You don't think you're being in the least hypocritical, Tai?"

"What do you think, Matt?" Tai burst, shoving the table back. The legs skidded over the floor, and before Matt could even react, the edge ran into his chest. "Why else would I feel like shit?"

They stared at each other over the table that was, thankfully, separating them. There was the potential for their conversation to take a 'holier than thou' turn, for them to start pointing fingers at who had committed the worse of two evils, but before Matt could reply, the buzzer to the apartment intercom went off. As he rose to answer it, he nudged the table back in its place.

"Ishida, Yamato," he recited into the receiver.

"Matt," came the voice on the other end. Tai turned in his chair at the sound of it. "It's Izzy. If Tai's up there, keep him there. I have a few things to say to you both."

xXx

**A/N: … Yeah. Lots to take in. By golly, how do I cope with such drama? (With tea. Lots of tea.) Anyway, I don't expect you to fully accept Matt's reasoning (or Tai's, for that matter). Some of the things each boy says can be viewed as complete and utter cop-outs, though I hope you'll give them the benefit of the doubt. I'm not going to touch the whole credibility of the Matt/Sora relationship problem with a ten foot pole, but if you have questions, I'd be happy to answer them via PM. All I will say is that I did try to play on certain outstanding aspects of each of them: Matt still being very much a lone wolf and Sora being a closet adventurer. I doubt that dynamic was handled well, but gosh darn it, I just want this bugger done and over with. Ugh. It's like watching daytime soap operas. Or Korean dramas. -_- It is agonizing. **

**Right. Thanks for putting up with another über long chapter! I can only hope the conclusion is worth the wait. :) **


	6. Dissent: Part IV

**Disclaimer****: Again, the lyrics are not mine.**

xXx

-_Dissent -_

_(Part IV)_

xXx

**I**f Matt found himself pacing anymore that evening, he'd rub a hole into the floor and fall straight into the apartment below him.

"That isn't enough time," he pleaded, looking at Izzy. His blue eyes moved south, glimpsing at the dining table where Tai sat and where Izzy's laptop computer lay open. In the screen was the image of Mimi's pixelly face. Her eyes peered at him beneath a pair of perfectly groomed, but rimpled eyebrows.

"You'll have to make time, Yamato," she said stiffly, jabbing a finger at the web camera. "Hana's set the stage."

Repetition of the plans forged without his knowledge forced his face into his hands. He groaned into his palms, his feet still walking him in tight little circles.

"Damn your girlfriend, Taichi."

Tai issued a disapproving grunt. He crossed his arms and flared his nostrils away from Matt, though the warped look of agitation easily gave way to honest concern.

"She won't _be_ my girlfriend much longer at this rate," he muttered.

Matt scarcely registered Tai's proclaimed doubts. He tread like a man with an itch of the brain, his attentions turned inward, his face locked in a lifeless mask. Hana, meddlesome as she was, had cast the die, rolled his turn when he wasn't ready. Now, he was trapped in its irreversible current, every second that passed bringing him closer to a moment he wasn't remotely prepared for.

Mistakenly, he had thought he could confront Sora when they met by happenstance at the restaurant. He had put too much store in the perceived safety of the setting. Being in public would compel agreeableness, but he had underestimated their resentment, shocked even himself when he had dared to yell back at her. The encounter left him burned and exposed, an image bystanders could use to entertain their curiosity or illustrate their definition of tragedy. He feared what another meeting would summon unexpectedly out of him. If she ran away, would he pursue? If, on the off chance, she stayed, would he flee?

"Matt," said Izzy, his pitch harsh enough to pluck him free from his musings. Matt raised his eyes and blinked the blue back into focus. Three individual glares, each varying in their degree of intensity, fixed on him. The rigidity of their looks strapped him down like the restraints on a hospital bed. He waited for Izzy to continue, but he developed the odd feeling that his friends were the ones expecting a reply.

"…Yes?" he posed.

Izzy rocked infinitesimally on the balls of his socked feet. He brought a loosely clenched hand to his mouth, tapping his lips in a familiar, cogitative gesture.

"I think you ought to be thanking Hana rather than cursing her," he remarked. "She's arranged your opportunity for reconciliation. Sora expects to meet her Friday night to discuss…" He cleared his throat whilst peeping at Tai. "…an _outstanding_ incident. The meeting, of course, is a ruse. Hana has no intention of speaking to Sora that night. The point is that she's ensured that Sora will be at a certain place at a certain time—alone." He paused, no doubt to let the information travel into Matt's swarming brain. "I suggest you take the risk," he advised.

The muscles in Matt's jaw grew taut.

"And if she doesn't want to listen?" he questioned. "The last time I tried to speak to her, we ended up fighting in public. The instant she sees me, she'll leave." _Or I might,_ he added inwardly.

"Perhaps your last approach was ill-calculated," postulated Izzy.

Matt's expression soured.

"All I did was look her in the eye and tell her I had a few things to say," he defended. "Normally, that would be considered the 'proper' approach, but Sora only ended up detonating."

"Take the factors of your encounter into perspective, Matt," Izzy parried, beginning to speak in imperatives. "You had _nothing_ going for you. You ran into her unannounced. You arrived with another girl. You had an audience. You two weren't alone. Tai and Hana intervened. You can't tell me without blatantly lying that you expected nothing less than what you received that night."

With a grimace, Matt turned away, continuing to resist the truth acknowledged in Izzy's insight. But the revelations began to needle him. He had taken none of those components into consideration. His mind had been devoted to a singular aim: to rectify what he had damaged regardless of circumstance. The gesture had been rash, spontaneous, the embodiment of desperation. He had, without even knowing it, pulled a Tai Kamiya.

The epiphany drew him to look at the soccer captain, awareness of their analogous plights burdening him like a yoke clamped over his shoulders. Tai stared back, his gaze stable, charitably open, possibly hitting upon the same realization. His lips pressed together. A hand clenched and beat once on the table surface before he stood from his chair and approached him. Matt's heel slid back, preparing for retreat, but Tai grabbed him by the shoulders, suspending him from further fretful ambling or a hasty escape.

"Matt," he said, speaking into his face. "No one else in this room understands Sora at the level you do. Believe me. I've tried. I've _been_trying for years. I…" He turned briefly and glanced over his shoulder at Izzy and Mimi. "_We_ can't communicate with Sora the way you have, can, and do, Matt. It's just not in us." Tai's hold on him tightened. He even went so far as to shake him. "She needs you, Yamato."

His accepted mindset of defeat nearly condemned him. "It's not that simple," Matt was about to say, but he stopped himself. The echo of the excuse he almost let slide from his lips reeled him back to Hana's bold suggestion—that Sora, too, was wallowing in the infinite stretch of isolation. He hadn't been thinking of himself when he found Sora in the Digital World so many years ago, suffering the same crushing darkness that had plagued him. All he remembered roving through his mind was how he understood, how deeply he sympathized with her demons, how the pain he imagined he endured alone could be repurposed to fulfill her need for rescue. There had been no doubt of her need of him at that time and the many instances after. The quickest glance into her eyes, the simplest touch of his forehead to hers, was synthesis.

But time had given way to license, entitlement to the comfort often the result of their mutual understanding. Her needs became secondary to the illusion of his effortless satisfaction. He forgot that to comprehend her, he had to seek her, to pursue her even if her hand was seated warmly in the palm of his own.

Matt brushed Tai aside and covered his eyes with a hand. His head hung limply. He wouldn't mislead himself into thinking that agreeing to meet Sora would be a panacea for their shared problems. Even if she allowed him to speak, there still existed the chance that she would perpetuate their separation; but to avoid the opportunity would be equivalent to denying his impulse to be with her—an instinct he successfully buried under layers of self-pity. He had to take the risk. Sora had taken one herself when she surprised him that one fateful night. It was time he made the gamble mutual.

He removed his hand from his eyes and pointed his stare directly at Izzy.

"You're sure she'll be there Friday night?"

Izzy nodded.

"Hana made it plain. Sora will be at the park at six this Friday evening."

Subtly, Matt tipped his chin up and down in acknowledgment, his eyes already drifting to his closed bedroom door.

"Okay, then," he said softly, releasing the words on a breath. His head turned sharply, and he gazed silently at each of them—Tai, Izzy, Mimi—before he stepped towards his room.

"You can show yourselves out, can't you?" he said tangentially, turning the knob of his door and pushing the panel back.

"Well, yeah," replied Tai, confused. "But what are you d—"

"Good."

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, ignoring the puzzled murmurs of his friends as he barred them out. His blue eyes centered on his guitar, and he seized it by its neck before dumping himself in his desk chair. Leaning forward, his fingers rapidly riffled through his notebook, furiously paging through for a set of lyrics, waiting to come across the last verses he would tragically write in her name.

xXx

The walk to the park would be good for her. She had had a tennis match earlier but opted not to take the bus back to Odaiba with her teammates. Despite the fatigue in her muscles and the slight ache in the joint of her serving arm, she had decided to walk. Her commute was timed to ensure she would arrive shortly after her appointed rendezvous. Hana's frequent tardiness to events was also taken into account, allowing Sora to wander at a meditative, unhampered pace, much in the way a snow plough sluggishly cleared roads of icy build-up. They would be talking about Tai.

Sora had already apologized to Hana for what the dancer witnessed, but she figured it was about time she and the aspiring ballerina had a heart-to-heart. It was a conversation she had been postponing, specifically because Hana's last boyfriend had cheated on her. Sora didn't want Hana to relive those memories for her sake, but after what occurred last Friday, it seemed the topic was now unavoidable.

Sighing through her nose, Sora tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, her fingertips trembling afterwards. Above her, daylight waned. The refreshing coolness of evening overran the remaining warmth of the sun. Silhouetted against the pale yellow horizon was Tokyo's skyline, and the tips of skyscrapers kissed the twinkling purple wave that descended over the city. Streetlamps switched on, spiking sidewalks with their streaks of light.

Her eyes focused on her white tennis shoes. Patiently, she waited for the cement path before her to transform into the dewy grass of her neighborhood park, for the smell of car exhaust to be absorbed by the lushness of trees and the faded scent of flowers. The urban pretense—the busyness, the distractions—she wanted to fall away, to leave her exposed to nature in its raw form. There was an inexplicable need for her to return to the primary, to trace memories back to their unmarred roots—if only to rid her life of its many current complications.

She crossed Rainbow Bridge and looked out over Tokyo Bay, her red-brown eyes zoning in on a small square of dark green. With night falling, the cluster of trees on Daiba Park blended with the inky blue shadows of the surrounding water, as if a fog had settled over the old, former war battery.

As she approached the narrow strip of land connecting the park to Odaiba's main district, she could hear the gentle lap of the bay waves hitting the park's stone perimeter. Her nose tingled with the cold sensation of the salty air. She followed the path in, conscious of the noise she was making in what seemed so impossibly quiet a locale in so populated a city. It was almost _too_ peaceful, and a part of her wanted Hana to be late so she could sit for a moment in the stillness.

Sora shook her head at the thought. Contemplative time alone would only invoke nostalgia. Left by herself, she would go back to thinking about Matt. She would recall herself embracing him, her face pressed against his neck, his skin bearing fragrant traces of his soap. The low chuckle he'd give when she'd ask him to sing for her, the delicate brush of his hand against hers when he passed her in school. Such recollections would send her speeding through a spectrum of sensation. She would shudder against chills spiraling up her spine, the after effects of which would seep soothingly into her flesh, rekindling in her the safety and warmth felt solely within the loop of his arms. When Tai kissed her the week prior, all she gained was a superficial relief, calming at best, but insubstantial.

Denying that she hadn't wanted the kiss would have been a lie. She hadn't pulled away after all—not until it was too late—but the degree of comfort she had been unconsciously seeking hadn't been reached in him. Or, rather, _he_ couldn't reach the part of her that needed the comforting. Not because she was blocking him, but because he hadn't the influence or capacity to issue the breach. Her moment with Tai only amounted to two things: confirmation that she was still pining for something or some_one_, and an undeserved fracture in his relationship with Hana.

An aggravated sigh poured from Sora's lips. Never in a million years would she have pictured herself capable of stirring such scandal. Those were instances better left to the dramas she addictively watched in Yolei's and Hana's company. Her life had always been relatively quiet, tame. When she had asked for more adventure and spontaneity in her relationship with Matt, she hadn't expected the fallout that resulted. Her desire for variety sprouted from an obscure admiration toward the way Hana loved. The ballerina-in-training vaunted her affection for her boyfriend, possessed of an audacity that often left Sora privately blushing. She had seen Hana tickle Tai in passing, close every conversation with him with a kiss, and hug him in a way that was both tender and ardent, her hands sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt. All of it was publicly, unabashedly done but rewarded with reciprocation and a happy giddiness Sora foolishly believed she missed.

She had wondered if she, too, could be brazen with her love, daring; but it was an ill-fitted costume. She wasn't Hana. Matt wasn't Tai. Even as she rode the train alone the night she surprised him, she felt a mote of guilt within her. Secrets didn't exist between her and Matt. Her surprises had always been predictable, consistent with her dependable nature. For her, all expressions of love were immanently, unmistakably progressive. Any action that sewed the smallest seed of doubt dealt the opposite, but in her quest for change, she had ignored the sign. Years after her Digiworld adventures and the crest she had been chosen to bear still showed her how little she truly knew about it.

If she were to be honest with herself (and she had reached a low enough point to crave nothing _but_honesty), her happiest days were the most simplistic—days where she and Matt sat together in an isolated patch of park, her head leaning drowsily on his shoulder while he strummed his guitar, or the nights they whispered to each other in her bed. His forehead would be against hers, their lips speaking in such low, murmured tones that they could have been talking to each other in a language all their own. In that narrow space separating them, they would exchange what they thought were ridiculous pursuits: her dream of becoming a fashion designer, his of becoming an astronaut.

"I'll name a clothing line after you," she'd tease; and she'd place her hand over the one he'd have covering her ear, his fingertips stroking the curve of cartilage as he'd tuck away loose hairs. His ensuing laughter would tremble through her.

"Only if I get to name a moon after you," he'd reply.

Sora threw her tennis bag on the ground and dumped herself on the nearest park bench, pressing her fingertips to her eyes as she rubbed the water dry. She had sought to avoid falling victim to her thoughts, but it had already happened. A distraction was needed if she was going to make it through the rest of the evening without bawling.

"Come on, Hana," she spoke to the night. "Where are you?"

She checked her watch. It was half past six. Even Hana, who was routinely late to social events, would never forgive herself for keeping a friend waiting so long. The girl lived but a few blocks away.

Sora pulled her cell phone out of her skirt pocket and checked if Hana had sent her any texts forecasting her tardiness. There were none. Just a message from her mother asking (again) what she wanted to do with the box full of Matt's music. Its hulking, cubic shape was an eyesore sitting in the corner of the living room.

'_I'll deal with it later,'_ she texted. '_Just leave it where it is. I'll come back to i—_'

She stopped, her thumb suspended and shivering over the keypad of her phone. Her body bristled. Goosebumps rose on every free inch of her limbs. She stood, her phone loose in her grasp. Her eyes scanned her surroundings for the disturbances perforating her heart.

There was music.

It came upon her gently at first, undetectably, as natural and unfiltered as the very air she breathed. Yet its purity was making her throat constrict, her pulse to quicken. These were raw sounds, vulnerable to the elements, sung despite the likelihood of a breeze sweeping it into nothingness like dust. Her foot dragged forward through the grass but she stopped its advance, going so far as to lift the toe back to retreat.

But she could not. Her head would not turn. Her body would not twist. It wasn't so much that she felt frozen in place or rooted to the ground. What she _felt_ was backed up against a cliff edge, balancing shakily on her toes, abandoned with two options: to plunge forward or backflip into oblivion. In truth, there was but one choice—to pursue, and she did, eventually, fearfully making way through the park's well-trod paths.

As she walked, the melody and words that had since been entwined separated. Notes could be distinguished. The harmony of a voice could be heard _en clair_. Music and lyric rode different waves on the same staff but paired perfectly together. Perhaps they didn't always pause at the same time, but where one rested, the other filled the gap, formed the bridge to carry the other when it felt ready to continue.

Sora couldn't sing or play an instrument to save her life, nor did she know anything about musical composition, but this song she understood. She could dissect its emotions, pinpoint the movements that imbued her with palpitating frissons. Its calm, subdued rhapsody punctured her down to her bones, struck her at the very root of her pain, only to soothe it afterwards like aloe on a burn.

'_Through nights like this one I held her in my arms._

_I kissed her again and again under the endless sky…_'

She choked on a breath when she saw him. Her body came to a full stop, cringing inward as if stabbed by an arrow tip. He sat on a bench not too far from where she stood, his back facing her, head bowed over the charcoal line of his guitar. His hair was bathed in the odd silver mixture of streetlamp and moonlight.

The music stopped, cut off by the discordant shriek of interrupted strings, the dull thud of hands resting against the hollow body. Her heel dug into the dirt to keep from stumbling backwards—or from running away.

He rose. She gulped for air. The phone still in her grasp was held so tightly that her skin was stretched transparent over her knuckles. She heard the beep of buttons randomly pushed under pressure as he turned. Maybe she had arbitrarily dialed the police, or the fire department, or the paramedics who would zip her away in an ambulance for having a heart attack at her young age. Their eyes met as he set his guitar on the ground.

Every one of his movements was watched intently. She was sensitive to every muscle twitch, every blink of those unfathomable blue eyes. Her brain begged for oxygen.

"Sora," he said.

Her head wagged on instinct. The teeth she sank into the cushion of her bottom lip kept contained the whimper scaling up her throat. He spoke her name like it was an apology in and of itself, the first syllable making it easy for the leap to be made, for the tongue to trip up "_Sora_" for "_Sorry_." To be reduced to a mere statement of remorse—a trite one at that—was laughable, deplorable. She would not be made a testament to his shortcomings, nor a monument to her own errors. If he would have her stand solo before him, defenseless and exposed, she would not be the balm to his burning conscience. She would not absorb his grief only to become his deepest regret.

"No," she said. Her voice quaked, struggling to find ground in the shifting wave of her emotions.

The crystalline eyes widened, dilating as if shot. He took a step backwards and she bravely made up for the lost space. Her face ached from the tears she held in.

"You will _not_ do this to me, Yamato," she stated, and she chucked the phone out of her hand and approached him—warily, hesitantly, as if she were fighting a magnetic pull or swimming against a river's current.

"Don't," she repeated. "Just please, _please_, don't."

She willed her tongue to stop speaking, as the movement of her jaw weakened her defenses against her tears. They leaked hot down her cheeks, blinding her temporarily as she dared to look him in the face. How solid he appeared, how perfectly poised he kept himself in front of her, while she was gradually unraveling to shreds. She wanted to touch him, to act on the foolish belief that the feel of his skin on her fingers would restore her balance. But her hands remained lumped into fists, afraid to reconnect with what she so cruelly tore from her being.

He exhaled. She felt it on her face. It was the signal that he was preparing to speak, perhaps re-attempt what she sought to keep from being uttered. Again, she interrupted him.

"_Don't_ tell me things I can feel just by looking at you," she said. "_Don't_ mistake me for someone who can't understand an ounce of what's going through your head." She stepped away, but took a risk and reached out to him, pointing a finger at his chest as she cried:

"Don't you _dare_turn me into an apology, Yama."

His expression didn't change. The speedwell blue eyes stared back intensely, unblinkingly, refusing to let her out of their sight. Perhaps they feared to close for even the shortest second, worried that in the swift blip of blindness, she would vanish.

Sora battled dissolution, sought to keep herself as present as possible, hooked in the moment that was passing as she breathed. The accusing finger she had directed at him lost its mettle under his dauntless gaze. It curled inward, her knuckle gliding down his chest, roaming over fabric she desperately wanted in her grasp.

"I wasn't planning to," he said softly.

Again, she shook her head, denied him her approval. She stammered for words, her mouth parching, sitting in her jaw like sand. In the seconds that followed, she cursed her inability to reply, to dress her feelings in language he could understand. It was the same state he had placed her in when they had met at the restaurant. It was why all she could say in his midst was "_Stop! I'm tired of hearing this!_"—a cheap maneuver applied solely to avoid being the one who went mute.

What she was most attuned to was his presence. She could mistake the feverish beat she felt thumping against her temples for his own, trick herself into thinking she could wordlessly infiltrate him the way his music had to her. Her breath shivered when she sensed his fingers hovering by her cheek. The calloused tips traced the curve of her ear, and the sob she had boxed inside her throat came out, released like a cough for air. Quickly, she covered her mouth with her hand, wetting the palm with the water steadily flowing from her eyes.

"I know those words aren't what you want to hear," he continued. His hand found the one she kept over her mouth. Gently, he pried it away, disarmed her, exposed himself to her speechlessness. Her fingers he did not release.

"I don't need you to say any more to me if you can't."

As soon as he uttered the words his expression changed. He turned his head, the hair that fell over his face hiding the wrinkles on his brow, casting shadows over the eyes that went dark beneath shut eyelids. His voice staggered.

"You give me the signal to leave, Sora—" His grip on her hand loosened until he dropped it altogether. "—and I will."

She said nothing. She couldn't. The only way to dismiss him was to say so. There was no gesture for her to express exile—at least to him—and she knew he would interpret her silence as impartiality, which was just as condemning—if not more so—than a spoken reproof. The instant he turned, took the first step backwards, she lunged forward and seized him, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled. The gasp leaving him as he collided with her blew over her ear. His collarbone ran into her lips, leaving the point of contact sore and throbbing.

In silence, she clung to him, shaking, hardly daring to draw breath. She was terrified he would break from her, annoyed by her forcefulness, fed up with her failures of communication. Her mind strove to articulate a need that had been, for as long as she had known him, ineffable. Such a move had never been required of her, and to pray it then was strange and difficult, its unfamiliarity alone urging her to give up her pleas. Yet, still, she adhered to him, soaked in every mite of him through her senses as if it were the last moment she'd ever have in his arms.

In the seconds that passed, she unknowingly believed that _she_ was the one at risk of complete disintegration, unaware that not only had he remained, but he was slowly sinking into her. The return of his touch was timid, sporadic, stunned into spasms she could confuse for tricks of the mind. Gradually, as her fear softened, she felt his fingers rediscover her—delicately and intimately, as if he were testing the new strings of a guitar. They slid over her elbow, scoped the curve of her waist. He treated her like she was a piece of glass, fragile, forbidden, until the side of his head knocked into hers, pressing the wet side of his cheek to her own.

"_Sora Takenouchi_," he breathed. His voice was silken, composed, regaining its firmness and musicality. Her name had been uttered with the hiccup of a contained chuckle, no longer the murmur of an apology or its pathetic echo. It had been flung from the tongue with a positive lightness, its pronunciation revived, as if it were his own, personal exclamation.

He held her more confidently now, their embrace tightening. She could no longer follow the movement of his hands. His presence was felt all over, suffused into every tactile nerve. She was barely aware of the palm he slid up her neck, the fingers he slipped beneath her chin. Her senses had gone fluid, synesthetic. Sound mixing with sight, scent with touch. The kiss that followed nearly floored her.

She regained balance with the help of the arm he wrapped around her waist, his hand supporting her spine, keeping her close, impossibly close. She dared to lean further in, grinding the toes of her shoes into the dirt to steady her footing. Her eyes closed comfortably, assured that when she re-opened them, he would still be with her. Again, his forehead bumped into hers, and she relished the renewed connection, the dull, rippled pain that rebuilt the bridge between their minds.

From him she summoned strength, her lips tingling with renewed energy as she framed words.

She whispered them into the crevice between their mouths, the sliver of air dividing them and connecting them all the same. One phrase filled that shared, singular space. They breathed it in repeatedly, reconstructing on its foundation the memory of that treasured place where they fed each other their secrets, traded their wishes and dreams—all of it spoken in a language they alone could comprehend.

xXx

Hana leaned contentedly on the rail bordering the park edge, eyeing Sora's and Matt's fused silhouettes with a thin smile on her face.

"You don't think he'll go down on one knee and propose to her here and now, do you?" she joked, turning to face the company to her right.

Izzy glanced at her from the side, the fist he had to his lips hiding any visible reaction. He raised one skeptical eyebrow at her, and she grinned all the broader.

After a pause, he chuckled lightly, his smirk mostly hidden behind the thumb pressed to his mouth. He nudged her in the arm for her frivolousness.

"Good night, Kurosawa," was all he said, before he turned and quietly made his way out of the park.

Hana was conscious of the gap he left behind, her eyes flicking down at the ground his feet once occupied. She sighed faintly and dared to look further up, unsurprised to catch Tai's gaze some six feet away from her.

His posture was poor, his hands in the pockets of his soccer uniform. Judging by how many times he chewed on his lip, she knew he was itching to speak to her, but he said nothing.

Hana cleared her throat and backed away from the rail, crossing her arms against the invading chill of evening. Her green eyes glanced once more in Matt and Sora's direction, comforted to see that the two had yet to separate. She walked on and followed the lit trail out of the park, conscious of Tai's stare on the back of her head, burning holes into her skull.

Easily, she resisted turning around. The night belonged to Sora and Matt. She wouldn't ruin it with her problems, and she was thankful when she didn't hear footsteps behind her, nor feel a familiar hand reach out to hold her back.

xXx

_One Week Later…_

The only noise audible was the sound of her exhales, regulated, bordering on too deep. Her hands were clenched and knuckled to her hips while she paced around the practice room like a tin soldier. Her green eyes caught flashes of her reflection in the wall-length mirror. A quick turn of her head, and she exchanged glances with the company pianist, who stood from her bench and drew the cover over the ivory keys of a black baby grand piano.

"That's enough for tonight, don't you think?" she said to Hana. The sheet music to Hana's variation of a ballet solo were gathered into her arms, and she and Hana nodded their mutual farewells before the latter turned back to her pacing. The door had barely clicked shut when it opened again, the lock released as if it had been pressure sealed.

Hana spun around, thinking the pianist had forgotten some leaflets, only to see Matt stepping into the room. His guitar case was in one hand, and, strangely, in the other was a gift bag—tall, narrow, with blue plumes of tissue paper sticking out of its top.

"Hey, Matt," she greeted cheerfully. It was a surprise to have him in the dance academy again for her sake, but she tried not to convey one iota of suspicion. They met halfway along the mirrored wall. "What's up?"

He grinned faintly.

"You mean you don't know?" he replied. "I'm Tai's lackey, remember? I have to see you home from now on."

Hana chuckled and poked him in the shoulder for the jibe.

"But, in all seriousness," he resumed, clearing his throat of sarcasm, "I stopped by to… thank you." He paused, then added: "You know what for."

She regarded him for a moment, studying him the way Izzy examined her horrible computer programming work—with folded arms, chin tucked in, and visible indents between the eyebrows.

"I'm glad to have helped, Matt," she said, offering him a wan smile. One shoulder raised itself in an offhanded shrug. "Besides, you know me. I was raised in the city of romance. Any matters of the heart, I stick my nosy little fingers into." She wiggled all ten of her digits at him, like a witchdoctor casting some ancient hoodoo.

He laughed lightly.

"Well, I'm thankful for it... for your mostly unwanted—but still very needed—involvement. Sora and I wouldn't be where we are without yours, and Tai's, and Izzy's, and Mimi's help. So… here." The gift bag he had been holding was brought forward, and when all Hana could do in reply was raise a dubious eyebrow, he jangled it, as if dangling the mysterious object would make it any more irresistible in her eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, silently assessing the item's weight as she took it from Matt's hand.

"Open it," he prompted.

She seated herself on the floor and placed the bag in between her criss-crossed legs. Delicately, she peeled away the tissue paper, Matt meanwhile setting his guitar on the ground and positioning himself across from her.

As she reached in, her fingers closed around a cold, slender, and familiar shape before pulling the secret item completely free of its sheath. Her eyes widened as she beheld the object in her hands.

It was a bottle of wine. Pinot Noir, imported from Burgundy, France.

"Oh, God," she moaned, sticking her palm to her forehead. "I haven't looked at any wine since our chat that many days ago, Yamato."

He chuckled and reached over, plucking the card taped to the bottle's side and handing it to her.

"You should read this first before your relive your hangover."

The dark bottle was set aside, and Hana quickly examined the card in her hands. Its face was decorated with meticulously drawn images of ballet slippers, tiaras, and tutus, and in recognizable, soft, neat script was written, in its center: _To Hana._

Smiling, Hana lifted the flap, and in different writing—slanted, sharp, and masculine—she read what she recognized as a French proverb:

'_May you never want for wine, nor a friend to help you drink it_.'

She giggled immediately, tickled by what would thereafter become an inside joke. Eventually, her snickering petered out, and the full extent of her reaction ended with a grand sigh. She directed her eyes at Matt, feeling increasingly helpless under the flood of his and Sora's generosity. Ultimately, she was unable to contain her gratitude to a mere smile and several bats of her wet eyelashes, and so, without hesitation, she scurried over and hugged him. He patted her gingerly on the back, laughing nervously until his chuckles reduced to an awkward, gravelly tickle in the throat.

"Thanks, Ishida," Hana said, releasing him. "It's a sweet gesture. I appreciate it, especially because I know _this—_" She scooped the wine bottle back up. "—isn't cheap. The instant there's an occasion to toast, I'll call you up and we'll guzzle this sucker down."

"Just make sure it's something to celebrate," he added. She laughed and eagerly nodded her agreement.

"Don't worry. We're not climbing miserably into the bottle ever again."

A pause followed, the room draining of their merriment as Hana recollected that evening. She glimpsed at Matt across from her and noticed he was looking at the ground, his fingertips drumming against the pale wood floors, probably, like her, replaying what could be summed up as a severe failure in counseling. It was a good thing her ex-boyfriend was the one with the psychoanalytic interests, as she was now aware how awful a shrink she would be. She was, however, excellent at exacerbating other people's problems.

With a sigh, she refolded the card and stuck it back on the wine bottle, preparing to slip it back into its bag. As she gathered up the tissue paper to throw away, Matt halted her with a question.

"We're all right, right?"

Hana stood and looked down, throwing him her typical skepticism: eyebrow arched, eyes squinting, lips pursed as she sucked subtly at her teeth. He didn't look the least flustered, just curious, and she extended her hand, flicking her fingers in toward the palm.

"Don't worry, Yamato," she assured him, pulling him back onto his feet. She swatted him playfully on the shoulder and turned to grab her ballet duffel. "I'm in no danger of falling in love with you." She shrugged. "Yeah, maybe you remind me a bit of Ryo with your silent appreciation for art and your general intuitiveness, but I like my boys brunette, tan, and incurably goofy. Though, I have to admit, your knightly manners can be distracting."

He laughed as he followed her out of the practice room.

"That's surprising. Usually, it's my eyes, hair, or voice that's considered the hypnotizing agent," he played.

Hana shook her head, tsk-ing throughout.

"People these days," she said, resisting a smirk. "Everything is about looks."

She snuck off into the closest restroom to quickly change out of her ballet gear and exited to find Matt talking on the phone, idly walking in figure eights around the empty hallway.

"I'm getting to that, Taichi," she heard him say. "And yes, I'm going to see her home. I'm meeting Sora for dinner in that area of Odaiba, anyway. …No. I'm not going to do this every night until you get your crap together. …Don't peg this on Izzy. If you want to make it up to her, then you just do it. She seems to be in a pretty good—" He turned and froze when she caught him with her glare, her arms crossing over her chest. Her foot tapped testily on the tile. "—mood," he finished. "She's out of the bathroom. I'll call you back. Bye."

"Really?" she said, and repeated it with annoyed inflection. "_Really_, Yamato?"

"Don't give me that look, Hana," he scolded, his eyes taking on their signature iciness. "You and Tai—"

"Matt," she intercepted, coming forward. She raised a rigid finger at him, lifting it with every intention of giving him a sharp prod in the shoulder or chest, but changed her mind. Instead, she nudged him gently back with a closed fist. "You don't need to worry about Tai. You don't need to worry about us. I'm not going to break up with him."

"Don't you think you should tell him that?" he aptly replied.

"Well, yes," she said, as if it were obvious. "Of course. _But_…" She shrugged unaffectedly and strode past him as she made way for the academy exit. "…I like making him sweat."

He caught up with her, shaking his head in a pitying gesture, which Hana would have believed if she hadn't caught him smiling. As he came up alongside her, he pointed an accusing finger at her cheek.

"_You_, Hana Kurosawa, are evil. He'll end up sweating an entire ocean over you."

She laughed wickedly.

"Then I'd better start swimming, eh?"

xXx

**A/N: Er… Yay! Sort of happy ending? Well, for Matt and Sora, at least (Not that I made their make up in the****_least_****convincing, but oh well). Not sure what's going on between Tai and Hana… I wonder what's up with that?**

**ANYWAY, next chapter will be my super belated White Day one-shot. For simplicity's sake, it will be very glaringly centered on Tai and my OC. So… if it's not your cup of tea, you're free to skip it. After that, it's a toss-up between Hana meeting Agumon and Davis going on a date. Or maybe some Tai and Izzy friendship time. ;)**

**Now, I understand I attracted a few readers because of these heavily Sorato-esque chapters, so I feel obligated to confess that Sora and Matt probably won't have a chapter devoted to them for quite some while. They will continue to make appearances as a couple, though. I don't expect those of you who have tuned in because of the Sorato mini-story to continue reading further updates, but I just thought it'd be fair to let you all know.**

**Okay, that's enough blabbing. Thank you all once again for your feedback! And thank you all so much for reading! :D**


	7. What a Tangled Web We Weave

**A/N: Happy [really belated] White Day! FYI, this one-shot is half pointless and half gratuitous :3. Don't expect much. I think I'm allowed to publish a stupid chapter after the doom cloud that was****_Dissent_****.**

**Happy reading?**

xXx

_- What a Tangled Web We Weave_ -

xXx

**T**he Sunday morning of March 14th, Tai woke to a jarring vibration tickling him in the side. He shot up, rubbing a dry eyeball with the palm of his hand while fishing blindly in the sea of sheets for his ringing phone. Once he touched its buzzing frame, he flipped it open and groggily answered his caller.

"Yeah?" he yawned.

Matt's voice resonated clearly from the other line.

"Just waking you up, Sleeping Beauty," he said, chuckling afterwards.

"What for?" Tai was already dipping back under the covers, drawing a blanket over his head and pinning his cell phone between his ear and rumpled pillow. Above him, he heard Kari murmur a request to be quiet.

"It's White Day, remember?" said Matt. "You told me… oh… _three weeks ago_… to wake you up at precisely this time."

"I did?"

Matt sighed.

"I don't have time to run over to your apartment and smack you in the head to jog your memory, Tai. I'm making Sora breakfast and—crap! I'm burning the eggs." Even in his drowsy state, Tai could hear the clink and scrape of a pan and spatula at work through the phone—along with a string of grumbling. Then: "Just get up off your ass, Kamiya. You asked me to wake you, so get up and pray that you remember what it is you planned on doing."

Tai spent the next five minutes listening to the dead sound of an end call before he finally raised himself. He checked the time—something he realized he should have done earlier. It was seven in the morning.

"What the hell, Yamato?" he muttered to himself. "I don't even wake up this early on weekdays. Why in the hell would I…?" His voice trailed when his eyes set on the backpack he had resting on the floor beside his desk. A note was taped to it that read, in his nigh illegible scrawl: '_White Day Stuff.'_

Quietly, he tiptoed over to his bookbag and carefully unzipped it. The first things he noticed were several bags of various white confections: marshmallows, powdered doughnuts, milk candies. He had to blink his rheumy eyes a few times before he noticed the second thing: each bag was labeled.

"Never mind," he said as his memory gradually returned to him. "Thank God for Matt Ishida."

By the afternoon, the only items still in his backpack were for the last person on his list. Tai understood very well that bad luck followed him and Hana like a raincloud, so he was not in the least surprised that his first White Day with her fell on a day of perfect spring weather. The temperate climate was not the problem. Its immediate effect was. Beautiful weather drew lovebirds out into the open like moths to a fluorescent light. The park, when he got there, was teeming with couples. Finding a spot to meet Hana became less about privacy and more about choosing which nearby couple would be the least offended by their PDA—or, conversely, which would be the least offen_sive_ with their own shows of affection. Hana had no issue kissing him in public, but if they were going to kiss in the park on White Day, they damn well weren't going to be upstaged by their neighbors.

Fortunately, he chanced upon a grassy space half-shaded by a few trees. The closest couples were several feet away, something (in retrospect) he should have found suspicious. Claim to the area was marked by his backpack tossed at the base of the thickest tree, and directions were promptly texted to Hana.

In the time he waited, a couple warily approached him. One of them pointed a limp finger at the tree he stood by, a mouth parted to speak. Tai thought they were going to ask to share the space, and he shooed them away even as he turned to look behind him. All he saw was a craggy hole in the bark, low to the ground. He shrugged and resumed checking his messages for Hana's reply.

She didn't keep him waiting long. He had just received her text when the grass rustled in front of him, and his eyes rose to meet her face—slowly, so as to, firstly, admire her legs, and, secondly, to keep her in suspense. When they finally locked glances, she had her arms crossed smugly over her chest, most of her weight leaning on one side of her cocked hip. Sweeping across her forehead was the fresh gleam of perspiration, and, judging by her tight up-do, she had recently finished her Sunday ballet routine. The smirk connecting her pinking cheeks was thin, sly like the look in her eyes. Points of sunlight flecked her green irises.

"You know… it's called White Day, but you didn't have to actually _wear_ white," he said in greeting.

Hana looked down at her shirt, her hands pulling at the hem of the white top and forcing the wide collar to slide beneath a shoulder. Her brief inspection ended with a casual shrug, and, as if she could read his mind, she hooked her thumb under the powder-blue line of her visible bra strap and adjusted it, releasing it with a flick that made the elastic smack against her skin. He bit his lip.

"So…" she began, grinning delightedly at him. "Is this the part where you shower me with gifts and give me piggyback rides for the rest of the day?"

Tai chuckled and approached her, stopping when the space between them had all but vanished.

"All right, Kurosawa," he said, placing his hands where her waist smoothed out into her hips. She sucked in her cheeks and looked up at him, making a face as she crossed her eyes. He laughed and poked her in the nose with a finger. Taking her hand in his, he gestured for her to sit under the shade of trees. "You ready for your first White Day?" he asked.

"Just pile it on me, Kamiya."

She sat down cross-legged by the base of the tree, but found the weather too inviting to stay in that pose for long. Tai had just unzipped his backpack to retrieve her first gift when she opted to lie on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. She gazed up at him like a child eyeing the approach of her lit birthday cake.

"Okay," he said. "First gift is—"

He cut off to glimpse at her and his hand froze in its descent into his bookbag. Some large, grey shape was furtively, and, based on her complete obliviousness, imperceptibly creeping up Hana's back. He arched an eyebrow.

_A mouse?_

He squinted for clarity. In a fraction of a second, his pinched eyes widened to their full circumference, bugging out of his face. Mice didn't have eight-inch-long legs, nor did they look like they subsisted on a diet of small birds. _That spider is one ugly son of a bitch,_ Tai thought, followed quickly by, _Hana is going to have a panic attack._

"First gift is…?" Hana repeated, her eyebrow rising. She repositioned her elbows so that her forearms lay folded over each other on the grass. The spider made steady progress up her spine. Tai suddenly remembered the hole in the tree behind him—the perfect spider lair—and the couple that had pointed at it. No wonder the space was clear of people, and he, observant idiot that he was, didn't bother to inspect his surroundings.

"Uh…" Tai scratched his temple. "Don't move."

"What?"

"I said, 'don't move.'"

He reached over, positioning his arm so that, if she turned to see what he was doing, she wouldn't catch sight of the mutant arachnid exploring her body. It stopped in its ascent, two of its forelegs rising, like cannons getting aimed to fire. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

_Crap._

"But wh—?"

"For the last time, Hana," he growled. His eyes hurriedly scanned the ground for something to whack the bug off. "_Don't. Move._"

"If you intend on pranking me, Taichi…" She continued to complain. He underestimated her flexibility, and easily, she twisted her torso to see what he was doing behind her back. When her eyes zoomed in on the hulking creature, she sprang up so fast she would have kicked Tai in the face. Mercifully, his reflexes were quick enough to dodge her foot, and while he was on all fours gathering his bearings, Hana screamed.

"Get it off!_Get. It. Off!_"

She jumped and flailed, moving in the same crazed manner as a drugged shaman in a tribal dance. Heads turned their way.

"Hana."

Unlike the last time she was assailed by a spider, he managed to avoid getting smacked in the face by her thrashing and caught her thin wrists with both hands. Stepping back, he quickly raked over her quivering body to see where the spider had gone, but he couldn't find it.

"Where is it? Where is it?" she panicked. Both of them looked anxiously at the ground.

Nothing.

His attentions were brought back to her, and he gave the lower half of her body another once over before concluding—with a sigh of relief—that the spider was no longer on her person.

"Coast is clear, Hana," he chirped. He smiled and released her wrists.

As soon as his stare lifted off her, he spotted the eight-legged, demonic offspring of Dokugumon perched on his forearm, pointing its hairy forelegs and four pairs of beady, black eyes threateningly at him.

"_Shit!_" he cried.

His arm swung, moving at so fast a velocity that the spider careened off, spinning across the grass as if blasted away with a leaf-blower. It plunked its fist-sized body a good distance away from them, far enough to bother some other couple.

"_Phew!_" Tai puffed. He grinned proudly while brushing imaginary dirt off his hands, feeling exceptionally accomplished for his clumsy (yet effective) handling of the situation.

With his forearm no longer accessorized by the monstrous spider, he raised it to rub the sweat off his brow. It was then that he became aware of a sharp pain pulsing on the back of his hand—the sort of ache akin to stubbing one's toe on a chair leg or ramming an elbow into a wall.

"Huh?" he wondered to himself. His eyes shifted to Hana, and he found her bent over, whimpering, both her hands over her face and blood leaking between her fingers. He blanched.

_Oh, shit._

"_Tai…_" she whined, keening out the vowels of his name.

Grimacing, he shifted bumblingly about her, fingers flexing and unflexing, unsure where to place his hands lest she lash out and spray the blood gushing out of her nose. Of all days to accidentally wallop his girlfriend in the face, it _had_to be White Day. He had a few choice words to say about his rotten luck, but the most frequent involved a command impossible to do to himself unless he invited someone else to do it for him.

He called her name gently. When she didn't respond, he settled for giving her a rub on the back in the hopes of calming her into trust.

"Let me see it," he said.

One green eye peeked doubtfully at him before she reluctantly nodded her assent. Carefully, her fingers were peeled away from the spot of injury, allowing drops of blood to drip onto the grass. He tried not to wince at the sight. Keeping the urge contained only made his face rear back, giving him both a double chin and a look that suggested he was asphyxiating on a ball of _mochi_.

"It's not that bad," he lied. Without thinking, he gathered the hem of her white shirt in his hands and wiped away the blood that steadily dribbled out of her pink nostrils. Once most of it had been mopped up, he noticed that the majority of damage done was just body fluid. Still, he wasn't going to bet on her waking up without a bruised nose in the morning.

Hana kept her forefinger and thumb pressed to the bridge of her nose, peering at him over the visual obstruction. Her glare veered down, at the red splotches staining her previously pristine, white top.

"Hey," he said, attempting to humor her. "If you think about it, it's like… uh… tie-dye." He sputtered a cheap chuckle, smiling broadly at her while uselessly pawing at the blots on her shirt. The acrid smell of blood was beginning to nauseate him.

Hana's lips flattened into a rigid line, the blood trickling from her nose running like lightning strikes of red over her mouth. She said nothing, and her stare stayed on him until he began to prefer being threatened by the spider.

"Uh…" He fumbled. "Here. How about I do this?" He looked down at himself, his hands digging into his pockets, stupidly hoping he'd magically hit upon a packet of tissues. All he brought out were grey crumbs of laundry lint. "O…kay. Um… Here. I've got it." His fingers tugged at his shirt, assessing the fabric's absorbency. After finding the cotton satisfactory, he closed a fist around the hem and yanked, fibers shredding as he ripped a rag-sized strip off. He didn't ask her permission, nor wait for her opinion on the matter. In one swift move, her hand was pulled from her nose, and shoved up her nostril was a frayed corner of his shirt.

She cringed and squeaked an "_Ow_" nasally enough for him to mistake her for Izzy. As she took possession of the cloth, he heard the faintest giggle reverberate behind the rag—his signal that he was, for the time being, forgiven.

He patted her lightly on the face, brushing away some specks of crusted blood with his fingertips.

"Now, Kurosawa," he began, turning around so that his back faced her. He crouched down on a knee and patted his right shoulder blade with a hand. "Let's say we ditch this place and get some ice cream?"

Her laughter bubbled out of her, sounding bright and clear despite the interference of the rag pressed to her face. Soon, he felt her lissome little body rest on his back, her slender arms loop around his neck. She was careful not to remove the makeshift plug from her nose. Once she was securely hitched, Tai rose and reached behind him, hefting her legs up in the palms of his hands.

A quick pass by the tree to grab his backpack, and they took off, piggybacking by the other couples seated or lying in each other's arms. They knew they must have looked ridiculous: he with his torn shirt, she besmeared with her nosebleed. By appearances alone, they looked like they had just gotten out of a fight with a werewolf. But providing entertainment to bystanders was secondary. The smiles and giggles exchanged weren't geared toward confused onlookers. They were more amused with themselves.

xXx

"_Ow…_"

The expression of discomfort was breathed on his face, moaned lightly. His tongue had barely pulled back into his mouth when he felt the soft pad of her index finger tapping his lips.

"_Gently_, Taichi," she commanded. "Please."

By evening, the center of Hana's face began to show violet bruises. Their appearance not only meant that he'd have some explaining to do to her father, but any intimacy for the night was in danger of being limited to butterfly kisses. For the sake of the holiday, he had suggested just kissing her other places—not the face—but his proposition only earned him a tame swat on the cheek.

The problem, according to her, wasn't him. It was _her_. Hana didn't just want to _be_ kissed and petted. She wanted to kiss _back_, especially after he had finally given her all of her White Day gifts. The new headband and bag of white-chocolate-covered marshmallows were met with coos of gratitude, but it was his last gift—a pair of brand-spanking-new Russian pointe slippers—that was the _coup de grâce_.

The expression she fixed him with when he had placed the imported package in her hands came straight out of the dramas she enjoyed watching with Yolei and Sora—the kind that preluded either a touching, unexpected reunion, or a vicious slap to the face. He almost thought she was going to cry.

Any form of vulnerable, exaggerated emotion was soon abandoned, and her positive reception of his gift culminated in a rapturous, repeated chain of, "_Thank you! Thank you! Merci! Merci beaucoup!_" Whatever pain she had been feeling prior was forgotten, and she pounced on him, their faces colliding with such force that her nose bled again. It took a glass of water and a surprisingly intense game of chubby bunny to rid the metallic taste of blood from his mouth.

"I'm _trying_, Hana," he protested. He shifted beneath her on his bed, thankful that he had the apartment to himself. His father had taken his mother out to dinner for White Day, and Kari, too, was at the Takaishi residence for her own pampering—a full report of which he'd demand first thing when she came home.

Hana rolled off him and sat on the edge of his bed, sighing.

"Maybe we should just watch a movie or something," she proposed.

Immediately, Tai sat up, eyeing her with a perfect blend of disbelief and frustration. He had formulated _plenty_ of plans for the evening the instant she snapped her bra strap at him in the park. Bruised face or no, he was going to show her a good time.

He swung his legs over the edge of his mattress and pinched her shirt sleeve, tugging at it gently. Despite receiving a hefty amount of stares at the ice cream parlor for her bloody attire and his ripped shirt, each of them had kept their chosen uniforms.

"You should change your shirt," he suggested, harmlessly. "You smell."

She agreed without taking offense.

"Yeah," she said, sniffing the crook of her elbow. "I'm not that fond of _eau de sang_."

She stood and approached his dresser. His shirts draped over her like bed sheets on a scarecrow, but she took to wearing them anyway when she was in a lazy mood or when she was randomly struck with a desire to practice ballet in his house. Occasionally, she would joke that he would have to return the favor one day and wear one of her tops, and he'd insist that he'd rather brave the world stark naked.

She yanked a drawer out, standing on her tip-toes as she peeked in and rummaged for a top that met her particular interests. Tai took advantage of her time searching and raised himself off his bed. He pretended to toy with the broken hem of his shirt.

"Could you grab me one, too?" he asked. He disrobed as he came toward her, pulling his shirt over his head and smoothly passing a hand through his hair.

"Su—" She turned to hand him a neatly folded tee and stopped. "—re," she finished, three seconds later. Several blinks wiped the wonder clean from her eyes, and a shake of her head brought her senses back. She re-faced the dresser. "We are _not_ playing this game, Taichi," she muttered angrily, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"Game?" He shrugged, unable to keep his mouth from cracking into a wicked grin. "I don't know what you're talking about, Han."

"_Allumeuse*_," she grumbled.

Tai balked, his arrogant grin instantly inverting into a frown.

"_Pfft_," he scoffed. He hadn't anticipated her crabbiness or the wound to his male pride, and he leaned against the bedpost and folded his arms, the shirt she had handed him still in his grip. "Takes one to know one," he muttered, sending her a look.

Her head jerked, and the glare she threw him bordered on genuinely livid. The silence that followed was charged and lethal. Her upper lip tensed, and he could easily and vividly imagine her shrilling out an incensed, "_Excusez-moi?_"

Even so, he dared to shrug at her, the movement detached, mocking. The corners of his mouth dipped for a second as his shoulders lifted and fell.

"You have to admit that it's true," he goaded, raising his eyebrows at her in challenge.

Hana's mouth parted, her lower lip curling under the press of her front teeth. One eye of hers squinted at him in hateful scrutiny.

"All right, _Tai_," she ceded, slamming the drawer shut with one hand. "_Fine_." Her voice was unnaturally sing-songy, falsely sweet. His body unconsciously tilted at a slight angle away from her.

She straightened her back, squaring her shoulders in the same manner she did right before she struck a ballet pose. It was almost as if she were sizing him up, though he wasn't sure if it was more in the way a cow was looked at prior to slaughter or the way a nemesis eyed him before a fight. Nonetheless, he called her bluff and snickered, hugging his naked sides and successfully ruining her haughty air.

When he regained composure, he repeated his promise:

"I'll be gentle, Hana," he assured her, closing the gap between them. He was about to poke her in the nose but remembered to stop a hair's breadth from the empurpled, pointed tip.

"You've been trying to be gentle for the past half hour," she argued, bringing out the flamboyant hand gestures. "I don't want to _bleed_ all over your bed sheets!"

He had to grind his teeth to keep from saying something inappropriate.

What he eventually settled for was a halfhearted, "_Eh…_," which he uttered while rounding her nonchalantly.

"Tell you what, Kurosawa," he said. He stopped behind her back, his stare narrowing on the bare slope of her neck. "Give me one more chance, and if I screw up, we'll watch a movie." He traced a finger over the slight bump of her upper vertebrae, following the swooping curve of her shirt collar. "Besides," he continued, lowering his head, "it's not about rewarding me, anyway. White Day's for girls. So…"

His thought was never completed. Softly, he pressed his nose near the base of her skull, closing his eyes as he quietly inhaled her scent. The aroma alone could replay the events of their day. On her he could smell the salt from being outdoors, the pungency of her nosebleed, the dusty sweetness of marshmallows—traces of which he could still taste on his tongue.

In a surprising gesture of compliance, her head shifted, tilting her face to the side. Flyaway hairs from her bun tickled his lips. She swallowed audibly, and one eye of his opened in time to see the visceral movement in her throat. It was watched intently, and he found himself taking a unique and covetous pleasure in the internal reflexes of her body. He wanted that flux in his mouth.

The lips he had against the back of her head parted, spread, and traveled lightly over skin. He nibbled discreetly on the shifting tendons of her neck down to her shoulder, smirking against their reactive stiffness, guilty of guessing what else could twitch tight at his trespass. A smile was hid in the soft expanse of her skin, broadened when he felt her tamely jab him in the side with her elbow—a sign of her uncanny ability to read his mental mischief as if it were bold print on a page.

Delicately, he drew her in, sliding his hands beneath her shirt, promising her tenderness. Fingertips glossed over her naked midriff, skimmed the skin just below the low waist of her jeans. They drummed for a moment over her navel, able to feel the rising tempo of her heartbeat in the tremulous flush, killing time until he lost patience and zipped his hand south. She seized his fingers before he could unbutton anything.

"You _said_ you'd be gentle," she reminded, spinning around and poking him in the sternum. She didn't back away, and even if she breathed noiselessly through her nose, he couldn't help but observe the subtle heaving of her chest—or ignore how her eyes lowered under hooded, fluttering lids, hiding what he was confident was a mad, electric desire.

He smiled one-sidedly and leaned in to meet her eye level better.

"I did, and I will," he granted, tipping her chin up with a knuckle. She continued to glare at him, keeping up the farce like the tricky performer she was. He chuckled and brought his mouth close. "I just never said I'd be good."

xXx

*_allumeuse_ – a tease, usually referring to a woman.

xXx

**A/N: God, that was bad. -_- Disjointed throughout, with unexplained goings-on (though, you're welcome to think****_whatever_**__**you'd like XD). Sheesh, why do you people let me write such offal?**

**Anywho, unless something drastic happens, Davis gets the limelight in the next update, and he'll show off some of his classic Casanova moves. XD**

**Thank you for reading! :D**


	8. Let's Make a Date

**A/N: Okay. A few things… This chapter is really, really spastic. It's practically scattered word vomit on the screen. I planned on making it more linear, but I couldn't give up a few scenes. Um… it is long, too. You get most couples participating in this bit, so there are A LOT of characters to balance. So, again, you can flush my characterizations and details (I totally botched up Ken D:) down the toilet because this borders on circus crazy by the end—and some folks border on being caricatures. Okay? Okay. I think that's it for now. **

**Enjoy the chapter! **

xXx

_- Let's Make a Date -_

xXx

**E**veryone had caught the disease: Matt and Sora, Tai and Hana, Izzy and Mimi, Ken and Yolei, T.K. and Kari. They all waltzed through their days delirious with fever, talking gibberish, the infection making sponges of their brains. The world's most debilitating plague had rendered them happy invalids, and Davis alone suffered complete immunity.

Too often had he wasted Saturday afternoons dialing up friends only to be informed that so-and-so friend was going on a date with such-and-such friend. His phone would shut in a fist, and he'd shake it at the ceiling, crying out his preferred expression of woe: "_Some [bleeping] friends!_"

If he was lucky enough to grab a buddy, usually his or her significant other would tag along, and Davis would be reduced to the flimsy third wheel. He had dry-heaved on these outings so many times that, one instance, he actually threw up. At the time, he hadn't owed Tai any noogies, but his _senpai_ took a generous amount anyway, though it had been Hana who had been in the line of his projectile vomit.

Still, Davis remained sore (figuratively _and_ literally). His continued singleness among a throng of couples didn't seem fair. In fact, he was convinced it wasn't. He'd contract this epidemic even if it was the last thing he did in his young, teenaged life. Whatever it took—dangerous injections, exposure to deadly pathogens, diving butt-naked into sewage. He'd do it. And he'd catch the disease and fall so hopelessly, deeply, and irreversibly in love that to fall out of it would kill him. _That_ was the plan.

"Are you sure you're not reading the summary off the back of this thing?" Hana asked.

She was lying on the other end of the Motomiya living room sofa, peering at the DVD case of a drama Yolei and Ken had recommended watching. While it was clear that Hana's impression of their hang out was to suck him into watching one of her preferred entertainment genres, Davis's agenda was far different.

He had been stuck in the dateless doldrums too long to endure another month without romantic intrigue—especially with all his friends sweating the rancid pheromones of monogamy. His best bet at securing a date was through Hana. She _was_ raised in the city of love, which, to Davis, meant that romance was directly woven into her DNA. He imagined her blood cells being the shape of hearts, and her ulna and radius molded after Cupid's arrows. Her brain, too, must have lived on a steady diet of racy novels and teen gossip magazines.

With a roll of his eyes, Davis snorted and kicked at Hana from his end of the couch. He had, indeed, read the back cover of the DVD, but he wasn't going to admit that in front of her.

"Are you going to help me or not?" he whined.

The ballerina-in-training sat up and flicked his shin with a forefinger. He yelped.

"Davis," she said, "it's perfectly fine to _not_ have a girlfriend… or boyfriend. Whatever floats your boat."

"That's easy for you to say," he grumbled. "You were single for only four months before you got in a relationship again! I've been single all my life!"

His voice cracked as he shouted the latter, and the pubescent state of his vocal chords must have appealed to Hana's better nature. Her eyebrows knitted and her shoulders slumped, lips pouting as if she had come across a stray puppy on the street.

"Oh, Davis..." she cooed. She pulled teasingly on his pant leg. "You really feel that left out?"

"I just want to know what the big deal is." He was surprised he answered her honestly, but he couldn't retract his words now that they had been said.

"Well, then…" She sighed and bent over, digging around in the tote bag she had brought with her to his house. "Talk to me, Davis," she prompted. "What do you look for in your dream girl?" Equipped with a notebook and pen, Hana leaned back on the couch, clearing her throat in the process. "Let's start with hair preferences," she resumed. "Blonde? Brunette? Ginger?"

The change of plans had happened so swiftly that Davis could do nothing but blink at her in confusion.

"Wait," he finally said, snapping his stare back into focus. "You're _actually_ going help me?"

Hana giggled.

"Of course I'll help you," she chimed. She leaned forward and pinched his cheek the way his aunt did at family get-togethers. He shoved her away with a little laugh.

"Anyway," she resumed, "there are plenty of eligible bachelorettes at the academy, and if one of them doesn't find you in the least adorable, I'll eat my own head. Now, back to hair preferences…"

"Umm…" Davis scratched his chin. "Blondes," he said. "I like blondes."

"You're kidding!"

She slapped the back of her notebook on the incline of her lap, gaping at him with a mix of shock and pride—the same look his mother had given him when he was two-and-a-half and had told her he had used the big-boy potty for the first time.

"…No?" he squeaked.

"Hmm... _Very _interesting, Motomiya…" she murmured. Her pen scratched enthusiastically against her notebook. "Okay, how about…"

She ran through the rest of her questionnaire, going over information as broad and safe as extracurricular interests to the specific and mortifying—like how busty he liked his women and his opinions on sex. He didn't think their conversation would take a dive into the gutter (after all, he just wanted _one_ date), but it did, and although his nose didn't bleed while he was forced to talk to her about such personal matters, it might as well have.

In retrospect, he was thankful he had had the discussion with Hana, who could throw certain terms describing the male and female anatomy as haphazardly as the ABCs. Her indiscretion was blamed on her French upbringing. "_Mon Dieu_," she said, clucking her tongue, "if only you heard how my parents explained the birds and bees to me…" He tried not to pry but couldn't resist the temptation, and he was left with a mental scar involving hands and a banana.

Still, he tried imagining what his conversation would have been like had he spoken to Sora, Mimi, Yolei or Kari. He pictured Sora blushing and beating around the bush. Mimi probably would have scolded him for any raunchy inquiries. Yolei would have taken it a step further and slapped him, and Kari would have gotten sick. Talking to his sister, Jun, about intimate matters was out of the question. Just thinking about the possibility was an instant recipe for indigestion, not to mention the perfect subconscious source for a week-long bout of nightmares.

After all her questions had been answered, Hana told Davis to dress in his Sunday best, her reason being that if she was going to advertise his availability, then he was going be the hottest offer on the market.

"Could I take a shower first?" he asked.

Her thin eyebrows wrinkled, moving like a little ripple in a puddle. She studied his face for a moment before the green irises glanced south, returning back to meet his gaze a second later.

"… Sure?" she answered, at length.

He didn't bother explaining his reasons for randomly wanting to get clean. Her order alone insinuated that she would be taking a picture of him to show to his potential date(s). While he wasn't so touched in the head as to think smell and cleanliness could travel through pixels stored in Hana's mobile phone, he clung to the small, foolish fantasy that they would. After all, was he or was he not the child of miracles?

Showered and dressed, Davis sock-slid back into the living room, striking an archer's pose as he flung an imaginary arrow into the air. He skidded to a halt inches away from the television set.

"Okay, Mr. Suave-O," Hana orated, clapping her hands together. She reached for her phone and approached him, tapping down the limbs he had theatrically arranged. "Stand up straight," she commanded. "Feet together. Chin up. Good. Shoulders squared. Lovely. Now, smile."

She snapped the photo, found it unsatisfactory, and went back to fixing his shirt collar. He slouched and groaned as she adjusted a sleeve here and there, smoothed out wrinkles with her delicate fingers. She even licked her thumb and flattened a bushy eyebrow.

"Hana," he whined, slapping her hands away. "This is boring. I feel like I'm taking a school portrait. And you're treating me the way my grandma does. No girl's going to want to date me if I look like a boring piece of wood."

She huffed, her breath hitting him right over his shoulder. A fist was planted on her hip in an all-too maternal fashion.

"Fine, fine," she relented; and, for good measure, she mussed up his hair with a hand.

The next fifteen minutes were spent continuing Davis's vanity project, which consisted of him modeling a sequence of what he believed were alluring and manly poses while Hana snapped away at him with her camera phone. Occasionally, she would request a break, as her hands were too unsteady from laughter to take any photos of him that weren't blurred. She'd be rolling on the floor, crying out how her stomach hurt, and he'd just stand and look down at her, asking, "What? What's so funny?"

Eventually, Davis ran out of poses, and Hana was free to chuckle to herself as they examined the results.

"Some of these aren't bad at all," she commented. Davis looked at the photos over her shoulder, pointing out which ones he thought were winners. "Now, how come you didn't show this type of enthusiasm when you put on tights and a tutu for me during our game of Truth or Dare?"

He made a face and mimicked her and was rewarded for his cheek with a pinch on the nose. While he complained about the minor pain, Hana gathered her things.

"I'll take these photos and show them to the girls at the academy," she said in departure. As she stepped out the front door, she turned back, her hand on the knob. "I suggest you clear your schedule for this weekend, Motomiya," she prophesied, "because _you_, mister, are going on a date."

xXx

Her name was Naomi Fitzpatrick. She was in Kari's ballet class and was in the same grade as Davis, though she attended one of Tokyo's several international schools. A daughter of a retired American Navy captain and a Japanese housewife, Davis imagined his future date being a hybrid paragon of the go-getting Rosie the Riveter and Japan's dainty, small-footed empress. When Hana told him she was blond, he re-imagined his sketch of her. Naomi was then cast as a fair-haired girl clad in a kimono made out of the world famous Stars and Stripes. Her face remained a blur, as both Hana and Kari refused to give him details, and Davis was left to think Naomi was either a) incurably pretty or b) abominably ugly. Personality traits, too, were withheld. It soon dawned on Davis that Hana wasn't setting him up on any old date. She was setting him up on a _blind_ one.

"Has Hana blabbed anything to you guys about what she's like?" he asked, fingers drumming impatiently atop his knees. It was the Friday night prior to his date, and his curiosity had at last gotten the better of him.

He looked at the others gathered in his living room: T.K. and Ken on the floor beside him, Tai, Izzy, and Matt claiming the couch. His question was ignored in favor of watching the T.V. screen. The older boys fidgeted and muttered, glaring at the glowing television, thumbs manically pressing game controller buttons. Tai unleashed an ursine snarl and threw his controller aside. The dreaded, red-faced 'GAME OVER' script flashed in his quarter of the screen, his avatar's life prematurely terminated.

"You stabbed me in the back with a sword!" he yelled, spinning around and raging at Matt. "Where the hell did you find a freaking sword!"

"Cool it," Matt growled, tamping Tai's face back with repeated swishes of his arm. "Izzy's got the bazooka. I have to concentr—Damn you!"

An explosion sounded from the television speakers, coinciding with another quarter of the screen fading to black.

Izzy blinked and corrected his stooped posture while calmly setting aside his controller. As modestly as possible, he cleared the satisfaction of another win from his throat

"Best of ten?" he proposed.

"Bah." Tai scowled and got up from the sofa. "I need a soda."

"Get me one, too, would you?" requested Matt.

"_Pfft._ What am I? Your bitch?"

Regardless of the insult, Tai returned to the living room with an armful of soda cans, freely doling them out to everyone with the exception of Davis's. His can was withheld, retracted by Tai's quick hand whenever he sought to grab it.

"Come on!"

"I'm helping you out, Davis," Tai jested, dodging another of his clawing swipes. "You're going to need quick reflexes on your date with that dancer. Tick her off, and she'll kick you in the back and break your spine."

Davis abruptly stopped trying to snatch his drink. He sat back on his legs, his forehead creasing.

"Did Hana tell you that?" he asked, genuinely concerned for a moment.

"Tell me what?"

"That Naomi can break my _freaking_ spine?" His hand unconsciously went to his back, fingers running over the raised line of his vertebrae.

Tai laughed.

"Chill out, Motomiya. I'm joking. If anyone's going to break you in half, it'll be me." He reflected on his words a moment and rubbed his chin. "Or Hana," he added. "She uses that threat a lot." After taking a gulp of his soda, Tai cleared his throat and affected his version of Hana's soprano voice. "_Taichi, I swear, if you blah blah blah, I will break your [pardonmyFrench] spine!_"

The boys snickered at the surprisingly accurate impersonation.

"Besides," added Ken, tilting his head. "Wouldn't you rather be surprised? That's the point of a blind date, isn't it?"

"Well, I didn't agree to a blind date!" Davis huffed indignantly. "I mean…" He looked at the faces of each boy in his living room, feeling the muscles in his face tighten with horror. "What if… What if she thinks I'm ugly? Or what if… what if _she's_ ugly?"

T.K. sputtered a laugh through his lips, his face falling into a hand.

"It's nice to see you have your priorities straight, Davis."

"Shut up, T.—"

"Guys," Matt interrupted. "Remember, this is _Hana_ who's setting everything up. She's body-conscious as is. I doubt she'd pick someone who's ugly."

"So says the pretty boy," Tai snarked.

Matt was hardly fazed. His cool blue eyes stared unwaveringly over the rim of his soda can.

"Don't hate, Taichi."

The soccer captain balked, insulted, snorting and shaking his head much in the way he would have had a fly just flown up his nose.

Davis brought them back on track.

"Come on, guys, shut it," he commanded. "_I'm_ the one with the date tomorrow. So let's go back to me. I _know_ Hana told you guys about Naomi."

With his demands repeated, the other Digidestined at last gave him their full and serious attention. The older generation regarded Davis like the displeased panel of judges on a reality singing show. They leaned back in their seats, stares tight and sharp. By the time Davis had started to sweat around the edges of his scalp, Tai had finally broken his glare and glanced at Izzy, who returned the look with a piqued eyebrow. Then, their visual trajectory switched, the both of them turning to Matt.

The blond ran a hand through his hair before resting his arm on the back of the couch.

"I hear she's taller than you," he said.

The boys nodded together in agreement.

"And ripped," added Tai.

More nods.

"Astronomically more intelligent as well," offered Izzy.

Several, _vehement_ nods.

"Ha. Ha." Davis snorted. _Assholes_. "Be serious," he demanded.

"We were," Matt insisted, naturally able to keep his nerve. Tai was having a harder time and was red in the face from containing his laughter. His threshold was eventually exceeded, and while he rolled around on the couch giggling, Izzy decided to humor Davis.

"In all honesty," he told him, "if you want finer details, you should either simply wait or ask Hana."

At the mention of the name, Izzy jerked in his seat, bumping into Tai and successfully shutting up his chortles. His phone buzzed, and the rest of the boys reacted in a similar manner, all of their phones beeping or vibrating simultaneously.

"What the…?" Tai flipped open his phone first and slowly read aloud the message from his girlfriend:

'_DO. NOT. TELL. MOTOMIYA. ANYTHING. ABOUT. NAOMI.'_

"Well, speak of the devil," murmured Matt.

T.K. glanced down at his phone screen, which bore the same text.

"Did Hana rig your apartment with security cameras?" he wondered, craning his neck up.

"More likely she implanted a chip in Tai's brain that allows her to intercept his thoughts," Izzy theorized.

Tai sniffed disapprovingly.

"Thanks for making me a science fiction horror experiment gone wrong," he said. "And Hana sure as hell doesn't want to know what goes on in my head all the time."

"I don't think any sane person would," replied Matt. His remark earned him a punch in the arm, loud enough to sound a _smack!_ The musician rubbed his sore bicep vigorously.

"Hana's message _was_ typed rather… aggressively," Ken observed. He, along with the others, turned their gazes upon Davis, the vacant, surrendered looks reflected in their wide eyes plunging him into the ironic sense of loneliness felt while surrounded by a crowd of people.

"What are you saying?" Davis asked irritably. "Hana's not even here. Just tell me what Naomi looks like at least."

T.K. grimaced.

"I wouldn't risk it, Davis," he advised. He turned his head to the side and scratched his collar bone in a nervous tic, as if he were expecting to be caught by the very subject of their gossip.

Ken nodded, and his agreement made Davis less disinclined to give up his quest for answers.

"For all we know," he began, sustaining a look of innocence, "if we disobey, well…" He smiled thinly and put a hand protectively over the back of his neck. "Well… Hana might break our spines."

xXx

She stood in between them, holding their hands in her own as if she were preparing to join them in holy matrimony. In all honesty, the scene unfolding before her bore an uncanny resemblance to a wedding. Tai stood behind Davis like the Best Man, lending support to his protégé during the critical moment that was his introduction to the mysterious Naomi Fitzpatrick. Hana, too, was in attendance to accompany and soothe the nervous Naomi, hence why she stood between the two awkward teenagers, mediating their first conversation like an overbearing mother.

"Davis," Hana announced, wiggling the boy's hand in her grasp. "This is Naomi. Naomi," and here she mimicked the same gesture to the girl, "this is Davis. Davis, Naomi. Naomi, Davis."

"Hey," said Davis.

He smiled broadly, toothily, and Hana was vaguely impressed that he would show off his cheesy grin so soon. She noticed his eyes roving subtly, soaking in the face of his date with a mix of determination and awe—almost to the point where it looked like he was frowning.

Naomi was a fair girl, Davis's height, slim, but all muscle. Her hair was a softer shade of yellow than Matt's and T.K.'s famous blond mops, and it was parted in the middle, arranged in two buns that sat like little beehives along the upper sides of her skull. She wore a pair of blue-rimmed, cat-eye frames over her brown eyes, both of which stared back at Davis with the faintest glint of suspicion.

"Hi," she said.

Gladly, Hana released both their hands, relishing the cool sweep of air drying the perspiration accumulated in her palms.

"Well…" said Hana, sneaking backwards away from them. She gave each teen a slight nudge in the shoulder as she made her exit. "I'll see you two later?"

She waited a moment, surprised she could feel her heartbeat escalating when Naomi and Davis looked from her to each other, then to Tai, then to each other again. Davis blinked, shrugged, and offered Naomi his hand.

"Tokyo's pretty crowded," he said. "I don't want you to get lost."

Hana noticed a muscle beat in Tai's clenched jaw. Yes, Davis was really dropping the lines that early on.

Naomi's arms didn't budge.

"I think I should let you know, Davis, that I've lived here for the past five years," she informed—gently, but with bite, like a puppy's nip on the hand. "I know how to shove an elbow into people's ribs."

"O-Oh, I knew that," Davis bluffed, shrugging. Hana almost whimpered when he shoved his hand back in his shorts' pocket. "I bet you know how to break people's spines, too."

"What?"

Tai smacked his palm to his forehead and turned around, more, Hana judged, from embarrassment than from a desire to be unseen.

Davis cleared his throat.

"So… uh… where to?" He scratched his head.

Naomi stepped forward and slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. He flinched.

"Lead, and I'll be your Spanish archer," she said.

He laughed nervously.

"My what?"

As they walked away, their bodies shrinking in the distance, Hana attacked Tai with a hug from behind, the impact spinning him around.

"Look at them!" she gushed, though she was more proud of her matchmaking skills than of Davis's and Naomi's cuteness as a couple. _"Ils sont très mignons_!"

"Oh, yeah," Tai replied, less than obligingly. "A classic Romeo and Juliet, Han." He turned and looked down at her. "Who the hell did you match up with Davis?"

"What?" she replied, disliking his tone. "Naomi's a nice girl, Tai. Sure. So during her breaks in ballet class she reads almanacs and talks about her pet guinea pigs? So what? She's calm and rational, and Davis is energetic and prone to flights of fancy. They balance each other out."

"We should probably follow them just to make sure."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. Davis is basically me a couple of years ago, Hana. That period of my life sucked ass. I'm not going to have it repeat with him." He shook his head. "Especially after that whole breaking spines line. Let's get going before we lose track of them."

He tugged on her hand and half led, half dragged her in the direction Naomi and Davis went off.

xXx

Sitting outside on the sunbathed terrace of a café were Sora and Matt. The both of them reclined quietly opposite the other at their table, flipping the warm pages of the books on their laps, reading through the dark lenses of their sunglasses. Occasionally, and simultaneously, they would blindly reach a hand out over the table, seeking to break off a morsel from two shortbread cookies lying on a plate only to brush fingers instead. Afterwards, they would laugh, blush, and take a moment to stare at each other through their tinted lenses.

On one such romantically clichéd moment, Matt caught, out of the corner of his blue eye, a familiar, moving bush of brown hair dart behind a food truck across the street. Hauled with him was the brittle frame of a recognizable ballerina.

Matt sighed.

"What are those two doing _now_?" he moaned.

"Huh?" Sora asked. She turned around in her seat and lifted the sunglasses off her face, resting them atop her red hair.

"Tai and Hana," Matt explained. "I just saw them duck behind a _yakitori_ truck, like they're playing secret agents or something."

Sora stifled her giggles with a hand.

"Well, they've never been the type to care."

"I know, but we're not five anymore, Sora. Watching them act this way in public is embarrassing."

"Oh, I think you're just taking them too seriously, Yama," Sora chided playfully. She stowed their books away in her purse, grabbing the cookies from the plate as she got up from her seat.

"Come on," she said, hefting her bag over her shoulder. "Let's see what they're up to."

Matt obliged and stood, taking the hand she opened for him. She smiled and wedged one cookie between her lips. Before he could mutter his first regret, she turned to face him, red eyes twinkling brightly, before the other cookie was popped into his mouth, successfully corking down his complaint.

xXx

"Did you see where they went?"

Tai glanced down at Hana. She had her face pressed to his chest, her arms hugging his middle. He leaned to the side and peeked around the edge of the _yakitori_ truck, peering at the distant figures of Davis and Naomi. They had paused to get a snack—_mitarashi dango_—rice dumplings skewered, charred, and dipped in a sweet, amber-colored glaze. The image of the food was sent straight to his stomach, and it roared with hunger. Hana giggled and squeezed his side, causing him to flinch and bang his elbow against the truck. He laughed and closed his fingers around the tickling hand.

"Stop," he ordered with a smile.

She made a face and stuck her tongue out at him, and his appetite abruptly took a more primal turn.

"What are you hooligans doing?"

Tai and Hana spun around, freezing like people caught in the act, which they were, in moderate a sense. Matt and Sora stood hand-in-hand before them, staring at them behind matching pairs of sunglasses, the light reflecting off them hot and blinding.

"_Mon Dieu_, you two look beautiful," Hana commented, blinking the stars out of her eyes. Tai gave her a poke in the side. Matt didn't need more fuel for his ego. "Tai and I are like sweaty pigs."

Sora laughed.

"Well, you two certainly look like you've been on the move. Are you in a rush to get anywhere?"

"No," answered Tai. He refused to elaborate. Knowing Matt, he'd simply frown and give him the usual claptrap about acting his age if he found out he and Hana were spying on Davis and Naomi. The blond musician always did like to fancy himself the mature one of the group, even though the only television show he watched was a cartoon geared toward middle schoolers, and Ishida never got quite so competitive as over a game of Shoots and Ladders.

Again, his loquacious girlfriend thwarted his efforts to remain mysterious, and therefore, free of justifying any of his actions.

"Ignore Tai," Hana said. "We're just checking on Davis while he's out on his date. You know, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

Matt tilted his head down, angling his sunglasses so that his blue eyes stared at them unobstructed.

"Wait," he said. "So this is really happening? Davis is _really_ out on his date?"

"Um… yes?" Hana looked at him quizzically. "Is it really that—"

He chortled, almost sinisterly, and let go of Sora's hand to join Tai behind the edge of the food truck.

"This I _have_ to see," Matt said.

To say Tai was pleasantly surprised would have been an understatement. His eyebrows arched, impressed with Matt's uncharacteristic puckishness, and he leaned out with him, both boys peeking at Davis and Naomi who were now seated on a bench, biting rice balls off sticks dripping with sweet syrup. Tai licked his lips too late and noticed he had drooled onto Matt's hair. As casually and violently as he could, he wiped the saliva away.

"What the—?" Matt whirled around, his hand going to his blond locks. Tai smiled sheepishly. Matt's nose twitched, but the blond said nothing, only glared.

"So that's Naomi, huh?" he asked, veering his blue eyes to Hana. While Hana gave her reply, "Yeah. She's cute, isn't she?" Matt motioned for Sora to come over, and he elbowed Tai sharply in the gut to make space as she approached.

"Yeah, she is," Sora allowed. "Those little pig-tail buns are adorable! And he looks like he's making her laugh a bit… Wait, that's because he tossed a dumpling in the air to catch it with his mouth. And… there it is... on his head,... sticky syrup and all."

They sighed in unison, foreheads upheld by open hands.

"_Pauvre dupe_," said Hana.

xXx

They had entered the shop in part to escape the infernal heat. Ken could still feel the effects of their hours under the sun, him helping Yolei hone her volleyball playing skills. They had stood on the beach, feet sinking into the hot sand, tossing a ball back and forth, practicing serves. He wasn't an expert—soccer was his forte—and Yolei, frankly, wasn't very good, either, but she wanted to be decent in time for Fall tryouts. She insisted she needed something other than Computer Club to put on her résumé.

When Davis had discovered that Yolei wanted to try out for volleyball, he had laughed straight for a full ten minutes, Yolei's threats and any objects thrown unable to silence him. Ken wanted to tell her that she shouldn't have felt obligated to do a sport because it was 'expected.' She was doing excellent in Computer Club with Izzy, and was clearly going to succeed him when the older kids graduated. But Yolei had been adamant, and Ken would support her, though he had a good feeling she'd quit volleyball after a few weeks. Afterwards, he suspected she'd want to meet up with him, and, in her embarrassment with her failure, cling to him and whine, "Why do you let me make a fool of myself?"

He smiled slightly at the imagined scenario, shaking his head as he returned to reality. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat off his brow, still able to feel the tinge of sunburn on his cheeks. A glance to his left and there was Yolei a few paces off, her lavender hair pulled back behind a bandana, her round face iridescent with sweat. Her back was bent, a finger on her chin as she pored over a shelf of movie titles.

Silently, he came up behind her, scanning from his distance the spines of the cases, getting as absorbed as she was into searching for the next series they'd watch together. His eyes opened some millimeters wider at a film noir title, and he reached for it, his hand bumping into Yolei's as she reached for the same one.

They laughed.

"Does this even happen in real life?" she asked.

"It kind of just… did."

Their laughter was cut short when the door to the video store opened and shut clamorously, the little brass bell shaking violently over a crowd of people that had just shoved their bodies in with much ado and pushing.

Ken and Yolei swapped glances. It wasn't surprising to see Tai and Hana using public venues as a playground, but Ken was pretty sure that Matt and Sora had more dignity than that.

"What are you guys—?"

"Shh!" Tai hissed, cutting off Yolei. He dove behind a shelf, beckoning the others to follow. Ken and Yolei pursued, instinctively crouching to mimic their peers. Their faces puckered in confusion.

"Did you guys see Davis and Naomi pass by?" questioned Hana.

"Davis?" echoed Yolei. "Nay-oh-who?"

"He's on a date with a girl from the ballet academy," Sora answered, her voice hushed.

Yolei laughed boisterously.

"You're kidding, right? Davis? On a date? What a joke!"

"It's actually true, Yolei," confirmed Ken, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I did tell you he'd be going on a date."

"But I thought you were joking."

Ken frowned.

"Okay, fine," Yolei relented, raising her hands in a gesture of armistice. "So, then why are you guys hiding?"

"They were coming," Matt explained. "We couldn't be seen, or Davis would think that we're spying on them. And Hana says Naomi would get nervous if she knew they were being watched."

_Well, __anyone__ would feel uncomfortable if they knew they were being watched_, thought Ken.

"Yes, but _why_ are you stalking Davis in the first place?" Yolei pressed.

"Come on, Inoue," jeered Tai. "Don't tell me you're not in the least interested in what Davis's first date will be like?"

Ken uttered his disapproval before Yolei could reply.

"There are a lot of things about Davis I'd rather not ever know," he said.

Yolei thought otherwise. The smile on her face curled in smugness.

"Ken, you have to admit that watching Davis bungle up his first date is ten times more interesting than any drama we could buy from this store. Think of it as a chase of some sort."

He considered her words for a moment. It was, indeed, very rare to experience anything in reality that remotely resembled the ridiculous scenarios concocted by Hollywood. The eager looks on the faces of the rest of their friends sealed his decision for him. He sighed.

"All right."

xXx

It always had to be swelteringly hot the weekends he actually went outside like a normal human being. While he had thoroughly enjoyed the lecture given by Hana's father, Mr. Kurosawa, at the science symposium at Tokyo University, Izzy wasn't keen on the commute home. His shirt clung to him like glue, the laptop case strung to his back making him feel like a sweaty beast of burden. His shoulders ached down to their sockets. He sighed as he sank into a seat on the train, disgusted by the way his legs stuck to the upholstery.

"Hey, Izzy," came a duo of cheery voices. Izzy's dark eyes lifted. Sitting across the car from him were T.K. and Kari. The latter gave him a small wave.

"You look exhausted," T.K. remarked, smiling. "Running on another of Tai's scavenger hunts to get your phone back?"

Izzy resisted the temptation to frown at the allusion. Tai had a nasty habit of stealing his phone and hiding it in certain spots around the city: in Hana's locker at the ballet academy, in Mr. Kurosawa's mailbox at the university, in his soccer bag full of smelly gym socks. It wouldn't have mattered as much if Mimi didn't contact him so frequently via text and calls. The first time Tai had done the prank, Mimi had assumed the worst, Izzy's inability to reply to her messages and voicemails driving her to panic over his safety. When he had finally reclaimed possession of his phone and explained to her that it had been Tai's doing, he didn't stop her from calling Tai up and screaming at him for a solid half hour through the receiver. Hours after the confrontation, and Tai would poke his fingers into his ears, speaking questions usually uttered by septuagenarians: "_What? What did you say? Speak louder, damn it._"

"Fortunately, no," Izzy answered. He related to the young couple his reasons for travel, ending his tale with an innocent query to match their own.

"Oh," said Kari. "Well, Ms. Takaishi's birthday is coming up, and we decided to get her a gift certificate to the best spa in the city." T.K. snapped the slip of paper in his hands. "We're thinking about stopping to grab some food on the way home. You're welcome to join us."

Izzy smiled thinly. The downside to having a long distance relationship was that, often times, he was still the third wheel.

"I'll accompany you on the way back," he said, "but I'll have to decline on the food."

They had barely walked a block after alighting at their stop when they spotted a horde of familiar faces. Their own presences, in contrast, went unnoted, as their friends were engrossed in their very public display of snooping—or stalking. It was difficult to determine. Tai, Matt, Ken, Hana, Sora, and Yolei were huddled at the corner of a building, peering into the tinted windows of a restaurant known for its American cuisine. If the sidewalks weren't crowded, and if it wasn't already an established fact in Tokyo to expect the strange, Izzy would have been tempted to hide his face in embarrassment. Instead, he, Kari, and T.K. stared openly at the antics of people they weren't quite sure they wanted to be associated with anymore.

One glance into the restaurant windows and Izzy was able to piece together the situation.

"I think you all have reached a new low," he announced, walking up to the others. His comment went unregistered.

"What the hell?" he heard Tai say. The bushy-haired teen squinted his eyes tighter and pressed his face closer to the window. "Why does it have to be hot dogs?" A nudge was promptly sent to Hana, who was hunkered below Tai's bent frame, her hands cupped over her eyes like a pair of binoculars.

"What do you mean, 'why does it have to be hot dogs'?" she retorted. "They can eat whatever they want!"

"_She's _the one who ordered them, and frankly, it's… it's…"

"Is she...?" Matt scratched his head. "She's not suggesting anything, is she?"

"What do you mean?" Yolei asked.

"Don't, Yolei," Ken warned. "Just… don't."

"But, why?"

They continued chattering about hot dogs, somehow always managing to avoid touching on the subliminal messaging that had obviously been Tai's original intent. Izzy looked to T.K. and Kari, glad they were just as poorly amused as he was. It was evident they would not penetrate the minds of any of their friends through any regular means, especially with half of them stuck in the gutter.

"Suggestions?" Izzy's raised eyebrow seemed to say as he looked to the young couple.

T.K. and Kari smiled in unison as they exchanged glances. A moment later, and Kari unleashed a shrill cry.

"_Oww!_" she wailed, and Tai immediately spun around, face stretched in panic, his overprotective brother instincts kicking in automatically.

"And now we have your attention!" cheered T.K.. He turned and shared a high-five with Kari.

"Surely you have other things to do on your Saturday than pry into the Davis's burgeoning lovelife," Izzy contributed. _Even __I__ have never reached a level of boredom so as to submit to this_.

"Get over yourself, Koushiro," Tai countered. "Curiosity is your middle name. You _want_ to know what Davis has done on his date. Admit it."

"No, I don't," Izzy flatly spat. "My curiosity has its bounds."

His eyebrows furrowed when he saw Tai turn to Hana, the look linking soccer captain and ballerina resembling the diabolical telepathy shared between partners in crime.

"Oh, but Izzy!" Hana cried, coming up to him. She grabbed his forearms, handcuffing him to their inane agenda before he could pull away. "You won't _believe_ what Davis has done so far on his date!" He squirmed, attempting to free himself from her grip, but she pulled out her trump card. "Just think of _all _the stories you'll have to share with Mimi!" she burbled.

Izzy frowned visibly at the introduction of Mimi's speculated interests. His curiosity was bad enough, but coupled with Mim's naturally inquisitive disposition—especially in the affairs of other people—and they became a walking, forceful pair of knowledge seekers, some of their aims less academic than others.

"_Fine_," he surrendered. He let his guard down and Hana released him. With a sigh, he asked the question always destined to come out of his mouth. "So what _has_ Davis done so far on his date?"

Sora and Yolei provided him with a condensed version of Davis's growing list of dating faux pas. Apparently, aside from getting a rice dumpling and syrup in his hair, Davis also discovered he was allergic to dogs when Naomi asked to pet all ten dogs being walked by a pet sitter. He sneezed out a blob of snot straight into a puppy's eye and had Naomi frantically wiping the creature's face with the hem of her dress. He also wasn't taking the hint that Naomi wanted to hold hands, and was oblivious to the numerous times the back of her hand had bumped into his.

"I lost count around fifty," said Matt.

In addition, Izzy was told that Davis and Naomi had gone to the arcade, and there, he commenced to beat Naomi to a pulp in a game of air hockey, going so far as to whoop out his landslide of a victory.

"Even _I_ know to let the girl win," Tai crowed.

"She looked about ready to snap him in two," said Ken.

"And she should have," Yolei added with a firm nod.

The tickets won from the other games played were also given up in exchange for a rubber ball that flashed rainbow lights when squeezed. All girls in the group groaned over the pure insensitivity of Davis not buying a stuffed animal.

"The girl loves animals, for God's sake!" Hana ranted. "She dotes on her pet guinea pigs!"

"Well, add spitting up chocolate milkshake to your list."

T.K.'s observation drew everyone out of their recollection of Davis's mishaps. The blond and Kari were up against the restaurant windows, joined at the hand, but using their free ones as visors as they peered into the glass. Clearly, the appeal of Davis in a different environment infected even them despite their original designs not to intervene.

"She must have said something pretty funny to make him do that," said Kari. "And I think that's a good sign. Look! She's even wiping his chin with a napkin."

"Say what?" said Tai. He pushed his way to the windows, intentionally squeezing in between Kari and T.K. and breaking their hand-holding like in a game of Red Rover. "Crap."

He backed away, pulling his sister and T.K. with him as they backheeled into the others.

"They're exiting!" he shouted. "Move!"

xXx

At least the mall was air conditioned. They had followed Davis and Naomi from the American restaurant to the shopping mall, debating throughout whether it was best to split up or remain trailing the clueless couple like a developing blood clot in an artery. If they didn't disperse eventually, at some point they would hit a tight spot, and the lot of them would scramble for cover when Davis or Naomi turned around, only to find shelter in short supply. The result could only be an aneurysm and painful, red-handed paralysis.

That, and Hana was tired, sweaty, and hungry, and she was certain Tai was, too.

Unlike her, however, Tai was devoted to his mission. Yes, his stomach growled demandingly—vociferously, even—as if it were trying to communicate its hunger via intelligible language, but he pressed on, leading the others through Davis and Naomi's wake, Hana having to take two steps to his every one.

What would have originally garnered their undivided attention (i.e., Davis's inherent foolishness) was being ignored in light of their fatigue—enhanced and soothed by the cool interior of the shopping mall. Before long, the complaints started dribbling in.

"Is it truly imperative that this venture continue?" asked Izzy. He was practically hunchbacked, having to lug his concrete brick of a laptop on his back for the past several hours. Hana worried he would get scoliosis. "Davis has proved significantly more capable in the last few hours," he added.

"I know!" Yolei fussed. She threw Izzy a sign of agreement. "I came to see Davis mess up, and it seems like he's finally having a good—and perfectly normal—time."

The others were loath to agree. Kari and T.K. bobbed their heads in unison—lazily, like car passengers fighting sleep. Sora and Ken were looking increasingly sympathetic to Yolei's and Izzy's arguments.

Matt spoke up.

"Tai," he said, "maybe we should drop this charade. Everyone's tired. We saw a few good moments when Motomiya made a genuine fool of himself. Let's call it quits."

Hana looked up at Tai, who continued to plod onward despite everyone resisting the compulsion to follow their leader. His pace slowed, and she saw his jaw clench, indicating his conscious effort to think before retorting to Matt's advice. When he didn't say anything, and the rest of their troop begrudgingly pursued them, Hana gently placed her hand on his elbow.

"You think something big and hilarious is going to happen, don't you?" she asked quietly.

Tai emitted a vague, gravelly noise from the back of his throat. After a pause, he leaned down to keep the words he would say in her confidence.

"Hana," he began, "you know as well as I do that this is _Davis_ we're talking about. _Of course_ I think something big and hilarious is going to happen, and I bet you the instant we turn around and go home, that grand finale will drop and we'll miss it."

Hana couldn't help but giggle at his logic. He made it seem like they were going to miss out on a spectacular fireworks show rather than the greatest of dating flubs.

"And you want to stay and watch so you can get a kick out of Motomiya's mortification or so you can be there to ice it down once it's over?"

Tai scoffed.

"Both."

Ten minutes later and even Tai was regretting his decision to stay and continue their shameless spying. Distracted by food and the increasing crowds of shoppers, he had lost sight of Davis and Naomi—a fact Hana didn't learn until she heard Tai muttering profanities in between chews of the soft pretzel he was eating.

"You _lost_ them?" Matt shouted, as if they were nannies panicking over their missing children.

"Hey! _You_ guys wanted pretzels and lemonade," Tai defended gruffly. He pointed his own half-eaten pretzel accusingly at Matt's disgruntled visage. Crumbs flew into the air. "If we had just kept going like I said, we'd still know where they are!"

"Says the guy currently chomping down on the pretzel!" Matt fumed, nudging aside Tai's arm.

The annoyed gesture of dismissal was executed harsher than planned, or, Hana assumed, fate was always in favor of pandemonium. Regardless, what was supposed to be a slight push ended up looking and feeling like a shove, and Tai's pretzel was knocked out of his grip, landing on the floor for barely a second before a passing mother and her brood of children trampled over it.

Hana winced as Tai's stare veered to his crushed snack, a grimace bending his stiffening lips. They had been trailing Naomi and Davis for hours, most of it under the hot sun. Everyone was tired, brains were overheated, tempers primed to be irritable. The last thing any of them needed was a petty fight.

"Tai..." she began, applying balm to her voice. She approached him cautiously, hands out, open, and assuaging.

He ignored her.

"Pick it up, Ishida," Tai commanded, daring to step toward Matt until they were nose-to-nose. If Hana hadn't seen her share of boy brawls in television, she would have mistakenly believed they were about to kiss. Sora put her hand on Matt's sleeve the instant the blond parted his mouth, his upper lip curling into a snarl.

"Pick it up yourse—"

"They're coming!"

Kari's voice rang high, successfully snapping the cord of tension in the air. Tai turned his head, a dubious eyebrow lifted.

"Nice try, Kari. That trick worked last time, but—"

"No, she's right," Sora proclaimed, her eyes shrinking as she stared into oncoming traffic. "Davis and Naomi are really—"

Tai and Matt swerved around, the both of them rearing back when they spotted the distant, but fast approaching figures of Davis and his pig-bunned dancer date.

All nine of them glanced around in a panic, desperately seeking cover, but they were like a school of fish in open water, vulnerable on all sides, a cluster of rowdy teens drawing attention to themselves as if they advertised their mischief with a neon sign.

"There!" Hana cried, pointing at a photobooth off to the side of the walkway. Grabbing Tai's hand, she lugged him towards the haven, the others—by reflex alone—following unconditionally.

"All of us are _not_ going to fit in that space!" Izzy protested, stopping before the photobooth as Hana and Tai jumped in through the curtains.

"No time!" Sora urged, pushing at them from behind. "They're only a few yards away!"

"Get your ass in here, Koushiro!" Tai ordered. Izzy was seized by the arm and hauled in as if he were a rag doll.

Feet shuffled, elbows butted into ribs, hands pushed faces as all nine of them squeezed into the booth designed for two people. Some way or other, she didn't know _how_, Hana ended up bending over the booth seat, her hands flat _not_ on the bench, but on something far softer and, she feared, human. Bodies and limbs were twisted above her, blocking out the light in the booth so she couldn't see who she was presently squashing down, but she discovered soon enough.

"Someone is _touching_ me!" Yolei cried. "Ken, where are you?"

"A bit indisposed at the moment, Yolei," Ken mumbled in reply. His tone was surprisingly serene despite the likelihood that he was bent in some impossible shape, his face pressed against either a body or the booth siding.

_Mon Dieu_, Hana thought, burning with embarrassment. _She_ was the one touching Yolei. On the _chest_.  
"Okay!" Tai's voice blared out. "Roll call! Who's here and who's where?"

Yolei responded first.

"On the booth seat being molested!" she cried.

"I'm so sorry, Yolei," Hana said, wincing. "That's me."

"What!"

Tai burst out laughing, the shake of his chest sending ripples of movement through everybody. Hana swore she felt someone bump into her hip, touch her butt, and knock a bony knuckle on her head—all unintentionally, she hoped. As they each announced their present positions of physical distortion and discomfort, Hana discovered that Tai was at the foremost end, against the photobooth screen. T.K. was the one leaning against her back, and the leg hooked around her own belonged to Izzy. Sora's rear end was rearending Hana in the side. She had no clue where Matt, Kari and Ken were spatially in relation to her, but judging by Ishida's grumbles of "Taichi, move your hand!", Tai insisting, "That's not my hand!" and Kari's innocent, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. There are so many body parts around me that I don't know what's mine anymore," she figured they were on the front end of the booth. Hana decided to apologize to Ken for engaging in illicit activities with his girlfriend.

"Ken," she said, "And everybody, really, I just want to let you know that I'm not a lesbian. And I'm really sorry, Yolei, for groping you."

"Well, at least it's you and not a guy," Yolei admitted, resigned to her situation.

"My thoughts exactly," Ken offered.

"Whoa, Ichijouji." Tai chuckled. "Girl on girl, huh?"

Izzy groaned.

"Tai, you truly have the mentality of a thirteen-year-old boy," he grumbled. "I'm surprised Hana puts up with you."

"Oh, I don't," Hana piped up. "Taichi, I swear, if you crack one more crude joke while we're all suffocating in here, I will break your freaking spine."

"So we've heard," T.K. quipped, laughing afterwards.

The rest of the boys snickered in unison, the whirl of their laughter loud enough to block out any outside noise, leaving them surrounded in the symphony of their own giggles and ignorant of the sounds of approaching feet.

Abruptly, the curtains to the booth were parted, and there, in the opening, stood Davis Motomiya.

Laughter stopped. Chortles were sucked back into mouths like debris down a vacuum. Naomi came up beside Davis, who stood frozen, his eyes shriveled to needlepoints, and glimpsed into the photobooth. Immediately, she jumped back in fright, her squeal stopped only when he caught her and quickly spun her around.

Before Tai could muster up a smooth, "Heeey, what's up, Davis?" the curtain was swiftly yanked shut.

Breathing seemed to intensify in the silence that followed, the air suddenly growing humid with exhales. Hana's body trembled from the giggles bubbling up inside of her, but keeping them contained made her eyes water. Distantly, Davis and Naomi could be heard beating a hasty retreat.

"Was that...?" Naomi asked, unable to complete her sentences. "I could have sworn... Were those...?"

"Nope," Davis hurriedly replied. "Never seen any of them before in my entire life. People are crazy these days, am I right?"

"Are... Are you sure? You're blushing."

"Me? Heh. It's just sunburn from being out all day. Let's, uh, let's just go, uh, there. What's there?"

"That's a maternity store, Davis."

xXx

The sun was setting over the Decks: the commercial boardwalk strip rimming Tokyo Beach. Davis's date with Naomi had officially come to a close, and after getting some popsicles and promenading arm-in-arm down the boardwalk, he reluctantly parted ways with her at the bus that would take her home.

He chewed absentmindedly on the cheap wood of his popsicle stick, which had been sucked dry of all lingering flavor. Since discovering his friends packed like a tin of sardines in the photobooth, Davis had been nervously aware of their presences, which explained why he was retracing his steps down the Decks. He knew he'd run into them eventually.

Thankfully, they were smart enough to keep at a safe distance from him and Naomi, and, to his relief, Naomi never pieced it together that they were being followed. Still, a part of Davis was curious as to why his friends would honor him with a Saturday stalking, and he had the odd feeling that Tai, Hana, and everybody else observed him and Naomi like commentators at a soccer match. He wondered how they narrated his afternoon.

'_Motomiya has the ball, swift on the counterattack. Back up won't come in time. It'll just be one-on-one: him and Fitzpatrick on the other half of the field. There's his opening! Oh, is this going to be it, folks? The goal of the century? He shoots! Oh! Blocked!'_

Davis raised an arm to block the sunset out of his eyes, and when the glare was blinked away, he got a good glimpse of his friends, all of them lined up against the rail, pointing at seagulls and boats drifting over the glistening bay.

"Thanks for ruining my date, you guys," he said in greeting.

Nine heads spun around in his direction.

"Davis!" Hana cried, running up to him. Her eyes were wide and clear, shivering with the anticipation of details. He was thankful for the prop in his mouth. Otherwise, he probably would have spilled his guts about his afternoon right then and there. "So...?" she began, while he shifted the popsicle stick to the other side of his mouth. "How was it?"

He offered her a vague shrug.

"It was good," he said, just as cryptically.

A weak slap was promptly delivered to his shoulder. Nothing would ever get past Hana Kurosawa—least of all from him.

"Don't play coy with me, Motomiya," she threatened. "Tell me how it went. Did you like her? Did she like you? Will there be a date number two?"

Before he could reply, she was plucked backwards, Tai pinching the collar of her shirt as if he were picking up a kitten by the neck.

"Is she bothering you, Davis?" he said, turning and giving his girlfriend a wink. Hana made a face at him as she was released.

Once Hana's curiosity had been tamed—or, at least, momentarily checked—Davis gladly opened up about his afternoon with Naomi with the rest of their friends. Most of the details shared were already known (no thanks to him being stalked), but their retelling gave the others the opportunity to call him out on his mistakes.

"You should have let her win at air hockey," Matt remarked.

"Or at least smoothed the loss over by using your tickets to get her a stuffed animal," added T.K.

Yolei sniffed disdainfully and said:

"Instead, you got her that bouncy ball that lights up."

Davis surprised them by explaining, quite effortlessly, his reasons behind committing those errors.

"She said I should make up for getting the rice dumpling stuck in my hair," he said, grinning sheepishly. "I kind of told her I had better motor skills than what she saw, so she was like, 'Prove it.' So I did. And the prize was for her dog. She lost his favorite fetch ball one evening in the park, so I thought, why not get her one that lights up so she won't lose it?"

Hana, Kari, and Sora clustered together, hugging each other and getting all puddlely with the hidden sweetness of the gesture.

"Aww. That's so cute!" they squeaked.

A silence followed, the more doubtful of his friends stunned mute by his unanticipated talent in the considerate boyfriend department. Tai, of course, summed up their feelings and bravely asked:

"So...? She _liked_ you?"

"Yeah." Davis shrugged and showed them his bare forearm, the tanned skin of which bore the temporarily tattooed digits of Naomi's phone number. "I mean, come on, Tai," he added, his grin broadening. "What's not to like?"

Tai snorted boorishly, folding his arms as he traded frowns with Matt. Before Davis could retreat, they had him headlocked, burrowing numerous, but loving, noogies into his skull.

"Ow! Cut it out, guys! I'm serious! Ow!"

When he was released, his smug smirk replaced with a defeated pout, a hand rubbing his sore cranium, Tai laughed and hooked an arm around his shoulder, pointing a finger at his chest.

"Just tell us one thing, Motomiya," he said. "You didn't try to kiss her, did you?"

Davis laughed feebly and scratched an imaginary itch behind his ear.

"_Well..._"

xXx

**A/N: So… just to let it be known… my laptop is dead, so updates will be… erm… sparse for the time being. (This present chapter is brought to you courtesy of the neat tricks my e-reader, coupled with the internet, can do!) Anyway, technology pending, the next update will be Tai/Hana centric (Gosh, aren't you sick of them yet? XD), in which Hana gives Tai his birthday present. I'm currently working on my Koumi one-shot request, if that's anything to look forward to. **

**Right. Thank you all for bearing with me and my tech problems/general complaints about life. XD But thank you, mostly, for reading! :D **


	9. Captured

xXx

_- Captured -_

xXx

**S**he would take it back. He wouldn't even be allowed to ask her why or insist on keeping it. In the days since she had given it to him, she had seen it lying unopened, untouched, on his bedroom floor, tucked in some shadowed crevice beside his desk. Perhaps he sought to hide it from her? Hide the fact that he was hiding it? No matter. She had seen it, and she would take it, free it from its prison of uselessness, rescue it from the slow, inevitable rain of dust.

His mother answered the door.

"Hana, what a surprise," she said. "Come in." Mrs. Kamiya wiped flour off her hands on the orange apron she was wearing. Behind her, the heavy aroma of shrimp tempura hovered like a cloud above them, mingled with the sweet-smelling steam of boiling rice.

"I'll just be in and out, Mrs. Kamiya," Hana replied, smiling for only a second. She took off her sandals and walked barefoot toward his room, the soles of her feet sticking to the immaculate wood floor.

His door was ajar, and through the crack she could see him, hunched over his desk, his right hand closed around a mechanical pencil, scritch-scritching away at what were probably math or science problems. She rapped her knuckles on the panel as she widened the gap, causing him to snap his neck up from his homework. His brown eyes pulled wide open, as if the lids were held apart by invisible hooks.

"Hana," he said, startled. He stood, the wheels of his chair rolling backward. "What's up? What are you doing here?" His shock was poorly concealed with a vacant smile and an absentminded rub of the neck. She noticed the thin sheen of sweat over his throat, spread over the line of his jaw. Even from her distance, she could smell in moderation what was likely concentrated in that tender spot right below his ear: the sharp, spicy scent of his body wash and the mossy dampness of fresh perspiration—the kind that had yet to foul into the sour stench of dried, organic salt.

"I just came to get something," she said, stepping forward. "Your mom, also, needs you in the kitchen."

Easily, he fell for the lie.

"Okay," he said.

Her green eyes followed him as he left the room. Quickly, she acted. Crouching down by his desk, she found the box and pulled it out, secured it under her arm, and exited. Her departure hadn't been noted as she made way to the front door. She could still hear Tai and his mother murmuring over the hum of the exhaust fan, sharing a laugh over dinner preparations. Her sandals were slipped on silently, and she yanked open the front door and walked out into the sunset.

She had barely reached the elevator when her name was called and a pair of sneakered feet sprinted up to her, skidding across concrete and announcing their unavoidable approach with a mockery of a paternal scold.

"Hana Kurosawa," he said, barely out of breath. "What on earth are you doing?"

The instant she turned to face him, the elevator _ping_-ed open. She marched backwards through the parting doors. Her stare was glued to his face, precariously calm and unblinking.

"I'm returning your birthday present, Taichi," she replied.

His eyebrows furrowed, and despite her silent wishes for him to stay outside of the elevator, he walked in. Hana held her ground.

"You clearly don't like it," she continued, trying to mask her hurt with flat statements. "I made a mistake, so I'll return it and get you something better."

He turned his head and sighed, directing his stare on the lit column of floor buttons. A hand smoothed the wrinkles surfacing on his forehead.

"I don't _not_ like it, Hana."

He had uttered the words softly, as if they were a heartfelt confession, but she knew they were lies—blatant and blinding.

A vein throbbed angrily against her temple. Her throat closed up. She wanted to fling the box in her hands at the metal walls of her temporary cage, smash its cushioned contents on something more resilient than her straw-thin temper.

"Then _why_ did you just stuff it in a little cubby hole where you and no one else would ever see it again?" she shouted.

Her voice ricocheted off the elevator siding, pounding against their ears and leaving a tiny, annoying warble so sharp it embedded itself in the brain.

Embarrassed by the ferocity of her outburst, Hana re-angled her body away from him. In shame, she bowed her head and uselessly wiped away angry tears.

The elevator bounced to a stop. Its doors parted in the awful silence that followed. She practically leapt out of the car to get away, knowing she only had a slim margin of time before he would reach out to her.

She wasn't fast enough.

A familiar hand grabbed her arm and gently held her back, and the instant she felt his touch, she threw a glare over her shoulder and twisted her limb free. The speed of her pace doubled in an effort to escape.

He overtook her easily, making up in his long, unaffected strides the distance she thrust between them.

"Hana," he said, his voice dropping his seriousness. "Hear me out for a sec. Don't walk away from me like this."

Her eyes flicked at him, looking into his face long enough to be tempted to reconsider, but she broke from his grasp a second time and kept walking. Again, he stopped her, beset her beside the playground shared among the towering apartment complexes hemming them in. He stood in the face of the setting sun, its horizontal beams hitting him squarely, covering the concern in his eyes with lenses of lucid gold. It hurt to look at him.

"What?" she surrendered.

His hold on her wrist loosened, traveled south. Warm fingertips skimmed the ridges in her clammy palm before all tactile connection was severed.

"I just don't get it," he said. He exhaled his pent exasperation, tossing his hands lamely into the air. "I mean… Hana, a camera? _Really?_ That's something you get Kari. Me? What the hell am I going to do with a camera?" A sigh puffed out of his mouth, released with absolute and bitter disbelief. "You _know_ me, Han," he said. "I'm not Ryo. I'm not like Matt. I'm not the artsy, reflective type. Hell, I could care less about how things look. So, why? _Why_ would you even think this is something I would have wanted?"

She pressed her lips together until her jaw was taut and her chin jutted. Her eyes focused on the playground's monkey bars, seriously contemplating how fast a speed she would have to sprint at in order to successfully elude him. She thought all she wanted was his honesty, but that had been given, and, still, the entire confrontation was making her sick—not with him or their argument, but with herself.

"I'm not stupid, Tai," she said. Her head veered as she blinked her stinging eyes at the ground. "I _know_ you're not the one to stop and smell the roses. _Of course_ I know that!"

"Then why'd you get it for me?" he challenged. "How can you expect me to be honest with you when you don't even trust in what you know about me?"

Hana winced, the air between them inhaled with a hiss.

"You mean you didn't even _try_ to figure out for yourself why I might've gotten you a camera for your birthday?" she demanded, finally raising her gaze to him. "Not even a _little_ bit?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hana." He might have used her name, but his jeer had been directed at the sky. "If I did, maybe we wouldn't be here right now. It's just _that_ out there, Hana, I—"

She shut him up with an agitated sigh, the breath released bubbling violently in the back of her throat.

"Fine," she snapped. "You want to know why I got you a camera?"

"Yeah," he retorted smartly. "It would help."

His ridicule forced her foot to stamp angrily, the heel of her sandal drilling into the cement pavement. She could feel her body fight flight, freezing up to the point where she thought even her teeth were bristling with a combination of loathing and terror, grinding the peaks of her molars into dull, enameled stumps. With a scowl, she broke the pressure threatening to crack her jaw and opened her mouth.

"I got you the camera because I like…" Her confession weakened. Words sagged off her tongue. "…Because I like the way you see the world," she finished. Her eyes cut to him. "Let me finish. I know you have some snarky ass remark lined up, but just let me finish." She sighed. "I know that sometimes your outlook can be pretty harsh. People who cross you or those you love aren't likely to get another chance out of you, but that's not the perspective I'm talking about. Sometimes I look at you and I see you staring off into space, a goofy smile on your face, and I can't help but wonder, 'What is it he's looking at? What's the reason behind that cocky smirk?' I just…" Pathetically, she shrugged, an expression of uncertainty being the only way she could convey what was torture spitting out.

"I just like your vision of the world, Tai," she resumed. Her voice grew high and whiny. "What you see, what you notice—whether it's the black sesame seed stuck in my teeth, or the passing blur of the ice cream truck. Or the opportunities hidden in an empty soccer field. The goggles on Davis's head that make your eyes glow with pride. _Those_ things, Tai. And I…" She sniffed and cast her eyes at the box in her hands. "I got you the camera so you could capture those things, share them with others, the world…" She laughed feebly. "…With me." The back of her hand rose to wipe the water from her face, clearing the salty residue before she turned her wet eyes at him. "_That's_ why I got you the camera, Taichi. Now…" She drew in a large breath, blinking furiously as she took advantage of the refreshing influx of oxygen. "… do I get the world's most idiotic girlfriend award?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. She rolled her eyes, feeling her mouth tremble, her eyes start to burn. In an effort to hide her emotion, she stuck her palm to her wrinkled eyebrow, keeping it there in case the tears leaked out. "Yes, you get it," Tai repeated, "but not because you got me a camera, goof."

The wrist pressed to her brow was pushed aside, familiar fingers locking around its narrow circumference before he pulled her to him. The box she had in her other hand was squashed between them, poking its corners into their ribs. He ran a hand through her hair, tilting her head up and preventing her from bawling into his chest. Presented with her quivering, babyish frown, he smiled—broadly, affectionately, so self-assured she would be grinning with him in a matter of seconds.

"You get it for putting up with me," he told her. His thumb wiped a tear sneaking into the corner of her lip. "The world's most idiotic boyfriend."

She choked on snot and laughter, succumbing to his embrace and letting him murmur thank-you's into her hair, followed by a request not to hang out with Izzy so much. Over-analysis was the computer whiz's specialty. Not hers.

Afterwards, he led her by the hand to the playground. Nimbly, he climbed up the monkey bars and sat himself on a horizontal beam. He patted the metal rod with his palm, beckoning her to follow. Once she was beside him, he took the box from her hands and opened it.

"Okay, Kurosawa," he said. "Let's see what the fuss is all about."

Together, they worked to assemble the camera, tinkering with the device in the remaining light of day, stopping at random intervals to correct their balance. It was a pocket camcorder, able to shoot videos and capture still pictures, designed to be held vertically in the clutch of one hand. There were tabs to pull, batteries to install, and instructions Tai only read at her behest.

Occasionally, Hana would look up from their hands. Her eyes would fall on Tai's half-silhouetted profile, admiring under a dreamy stare the aureate beams filtering through the fringes of his wild hair, the warm touch of sun on his cheek and brow. Sometimes he'd catch her staring, brown eyes looking at her with their merry twinkle, one corner of his mouth raised higher than the other in a lopsided grin. Perhaps he'd poke her in the nose or say a few words, but she never understood them. She was too mesmerized. If he took a picture of her then, she'd probably have a stupid smile on her face—the kind people give when they alone possess the secret of the century.

Finally, they got the camera working before the sun had completely set, and they hopped off the monkey bars and headed back to the Kamiya apartment, complaining about their sore bums. The box was thrown into a nearby trashcan. Tai pocketed the warranty and instructions, and on the way to the elevators, he paused and leaned away from her.

Curious, she turned to look up at him and saw the camera in his left hand, positioned over his face, thumb on the shutter button. Before she could blink, the device buzzed and clicked, thankfully sparing her a blinding flash.

"You know..." Tai began wistfully, sighing the words as he gazed down at the camera. She quirked an eyebrow at him. He tilted his head at her and shrugged, shaking his head left to right in disappointment. "This camera sucks."

"What?" she squawked.

He snickered and brought the camera toward her, showing her in the screen the first picture he had taken—of her.

"It doesn't do you justice."

She punched him in the arm, her cheeks aching from laughter. For a moment, she was speechless, too secretly thrilled with the comment to offer any verbal reply. All she could do in the meantime was seize him by the shirt and touch her lips to his.

Her response finally came as they walked into the elevator.

"You've been reading my Chick Lit, haven't you?" she conjectured, eyeing him suspiciously.

"What?" He made a face. "No. _Pfft_. I don't read that crap."

"Uh huh…" she drawled doubtfully. "'Cause I _swore_ I read that exact line somewhere..."

Tai snorted and avoided looking at her by fiddling with his new camera.

"Maybe Matt likes reading the latest teen romance novel, but I don't," he grumped.

"Yeah." Hana feigned a sigh and leaned back against the elevator wall, tapping a finger to her chin. "I wonder what he would think of _The Girl Who Kissed Dating Goodbye_."

"_That_ one was definitely crap," Tai muttered. Hana cackled evilly, jumping on his remark like a cat on a skittering mouse.

"Aha!" she cried, pointing a damning finger at him. "I got you!"

She waved her victory about as if it were a visible flag, teasing him even as she joined his family at the table for dinner. His guilty pleasure was gushed to the delight of his mother and Kari over doing the dishes, its retelling making his father chuckle uneasily as he welcomed himself to another helping of sake.

Tai walked her home afterwards, kissing her goodbye as she set a hand on the doorknob. Her head turned as the lock un-clicked—her name was called—and under the dim lights of the apartment hallway, she saw him snap a picture, the flash disorienting, her ears hearing him skipping off into the night as he laughed.

"_Ha! Got you!_"

xXx

**A/N: You know what would have paired well with this cheesiness? Wine. Lots of wine. XD And keep an eye out for Tai's camera. It makes a few other appearances (it will be especially prominent in the Halloween special I have planned. But that's far, far away). Um… What else? Next update will feature Izzy! And Mimi! And… Coffee? ;D Thank you for reading! **


	10. Crash

**A/N: Sorry for the belated update! I know I said earlier that I was excited to write this Koumi bit, but I feel like I totally hyped it up too much. This chapter, really, is just a whole cup of lame. XD BUT, that's my biased opinion. You be the judge! (Also, some formatting is wonky for some reason, so just ignore any stylistic errors.) **

**Enjoy! **

xXx

_- Crash -_

xXx

**I**zzy Izumi snapped to, his back jerking erect in his desk chair. His skull bobbed, clinging to the fatigue yoking his neck.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Izumi?" came the teacher's publically announced concern.

On instinct, Izzy nodded, and he crisply and alertly uttered his apologies before class resumed. When the teacher's back turned to continue explaining the math theorem etched on the chalkboard, Izzy released a little, noiseless sigh. It was the first time he had ever nearly dozed off in school, and he'd be damned if it was going to become a habit.

Offhandedly, over a conversation with Tai through his headset while they battled virtual space armies on a computer game, Izzy had let it slip that he was having trouble staying awake in school. The confession was swiftly suffixed with his rehearsed reason: construction work was being done on his apartment building—specifically, one floor below his bedroom window.

"Just chug an energy drink," Tai replied, as if it were a no-brainer. "Or drink coffee. That's what Hana does."

Izzy was about to ask how _he_, Tai, dealt with sleep depravation, until he remembered that any sleep Tai lost due to homework or horseplay was made up _in_ school. Such a delinquent lifestyle was not an option for Izzy. Despite his aversion to chemically interfering with his body's natural functions, he took Tai's advice and kindly requested his mother prepare him a morning cup of joe (_not_ Kido). His parents each had a mug themselves to start their days, and to add another to the mix was hardly a tax on his mother's time.

"Is everything all right, Izzy?" Mrs. Izumi asked, becoming the umpteenth person to ask him the question in the past few weeks. Regardless, Izzy was not in the least offended by her query. He knew his mother and her uncanny—yet miraculous—sensitivity to every subtle change in his demeanor, and he expected her justified apprehension.

"Of course," he replied, baldly lying. "Not a molecule out of place in my genetic make-up."

"If you say so," she replied. "Though, I think you're a bit young to be picking up a caffeine dependency, Izzy. Let's not make this a habit."

He smiled feebly.

"I assure you, this will be a one time occurrence. Thanks, Mom."

Guilt happened to be a rarely experienced emotion for Izzy, and so when his promise showed the true colors of a naked fib, he felt the shame of lying thrice-fold. Coffee in the morning soon became inefficient. He'd drink it at lunch in a thermos. In the afternoons when he got home from school, he'd stir up a mug of instant. At nights, while he did his homework, a cup of it would be sitting in a corner of his desk, staining an amber ring on a coaster.

Sometimes he'd be so hyped up on the minor drug that his scalp itched, and he could keenly feel the pupils of his eyes dilate and constrict. With the help of coffee, he fully transitioned into a bona fide night owl, and his mother or father would wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom only to see the light of his desk lamp shining under the crack of his door. They'd knock, ask, "Izzy? You're still awake?" and he'd respond, nervously, "Y-Yes! Just a lot of coding to do tonight, Mom, Dad. Don't worry about it."

Had he not procured such a flawless reputation as the obedient, mild-mannered son, he knew his parents would be inclined to disbelieve him, but they always deferred to his reasons (despite them being lies). By the time he _did_ go to sleep, it was with shame for literally keeping his parents in the dark. It was like hiding Tentomon in his closet all over again, except, this time, he was hiding a nurtured addiction.

His friends at school faired no better. While he wished for Tai, Matt, Sora and Hana to be so thoroughly preoccupied with their own problems and doings so as to pay little attention to his behavior, it was a moot prayer. They caught on, alarmingly quickly, and he had gotten his fill of "Is everything all right, Izzy?" to last him the next century.

One afternoon, he fell asleep during Hana's tutoring session, and she jarred him awake with a flick on his skull and a piercing, "Izzy! _Reveille-toi!_" which left him gripping the arms of his chair as if he were falling from the sky.

"My apologies, Hana," he murmured, afterwards clearing his throat. "Did you complete the—"

"Are you _sure_ you're all right?" she interrupted.

"Perfectly." He didn't look at her and changed the subject. "You have an exam coming up, Kurosawa. I suggest your lesson take priority."

Aware of his curtness, he dared to cast a side-long glance at Hana, and he caught her peering suspiciously at him, the saturated hue of her green eyes shielding whatever plan was brewing in her conniving little mind.

"Okay, Koushiro," she said. Her voice was light, sing-songy and teasing—a tone usually reserved for Tai and brought out only prior to some form of retaliation. Izzy could feel the sweat leaking out of his pores, making him smell like the coffee he had swallowed by the liter. The corner of her mouth curled slowly, and he knew he had made a mistake in bluffing before her. For being smaller than he was, Hana had the terrifying ability to make him feel like a mouse cornered by a cat, a metaphor not helped by the chatoyant quality of her eyes.

She turned and resumed her computer programming assignment, purring under her breath:

"What_ever_ you say."

xXx

His evening was spent talking to Mimi via video chat. It was early morning for her, but despite the time difference, she was awake, her attentions sharp as a scalpel edge.

Indeed, she was a force to be reckoned with at that hour. She was constantly and fluidly on the move about her room and desk, fluttering here and there, turning every few minutes in her chair. She'd coat a toenail with neon pink polish, then swivel in her chair and grab her hair curler which was pre-heating. One soft, bouncy wave would be steamed and shaped before she would swivel again, bending over the silver disk of a cosmetic mirror to apply eyeshadow. Afterwards, it was back to the nail polish.

"Well," she said, speaking to her big toe. "If Hana is planning anything, you can tell her that I will personally fly all the way out to Tokyo to make sure she doesn't do anything to hurt you."

"As cunning as Hana is capable of being, Mimi, I doubt her abilities to actually cause me bodily harm." He quickly reconsidered, staring absentmindedly (but fixedly) on Mimi's foot. Ballerinas carried their entire weight on their big toes, and that meant there was _a lot_ of power stored in otherwise innocent-looking leg muscles. "You know you don't mean your threat, Mimi," he rephrased.

She allowed a shrug, which seemed more like a twitch. Childishly, she threw him a pout and reached for something off screen. What was brought into view was a large, pink mug, a gold crown painted on its face. She drank generously from it, and Izzy, although multitasking on his computer while they chatted, stalled and stiffened when he saw the beverage. He could almost smell the brew in his room.

"It's not like none of them ever get tired or stay up late," Mimi continued, smacking her lips which he knew would taste like coffee. The hand on his mouse was removed and clenched into a fist to fight a hungry shudder.

"I agree," he said, somewhat tightly. "Our increased caffeine intake is statistically on par with the average consumption worldwide for our specific demographic." He paused. "I hear American teenagers are particularly attached to their caffeinated beverages."

He smirked lightly in the glow of his computer monitor, his dark eyes focused on Mimi's cream-white face. Her movements gradually slowed, her eyebrows furrowed, and she lifted her head from her pedicure, peering slyly at him through a pair of honey-colored eyes.

"Hmm… If that's so, _Mr._ Izumi," she began, "I hope you're spreading the trend over in Japan. You know I wouldn't expect any less from you. As your distant fashion expert, I have a reputation to uphold."

"It'll be done, if it hasn't already, I assure you," he replied.

She preened, smiling down at her polished toenails, her cheeks pinkened and warm from both coffee and pride. Giggles filtered out of her mouth, and she got up from her chair and sashayed off into the distance. Izzy could see her rummaging through what he assumed was her walk-in closet—double-doored and massive.

Moments later, she came out with two outfits by the hanger, brandishing them in front of the web camera.

"Which should I try on first, Izzy?" she asked, fingers already fiddling with the first button of her pajama top. "This one or th—"

He gulped.

"Uhh..."

The coffee he had drunk earlier was put to good use, and he could almost feel his neurons flaming as they heatedly generated an excuse to keep him from gawping at his computer screen like an idiot. That, and the random turn of events in their conversation was leaving him more than just a bit addled—and hot.

"I'msorrytocutourconversationshort, Mimi, butmymotheriscallingmefordinnerandI'dhatetokeepher waiting. I'lltalktoyoulater. Enjoyyourdayatschool, and I'mcertainyoudon'tneedmyopiniontoknowtheinevitable truththatyouwilllookprodigiousinwhateveritisyoudec idetowear. Bye."

Mimi laughed, leaning into the camera.

"Oh, _Izzy_."

He logged out and closed the program window instantly, realizing that he was sweating profusely and was out of breath. Would he have been able to perform such a feat without coffee? He rubbed his forehead. Highly doubtful.

xXx

At school the following morning, he was more perturbed than surprised to find his friends loitering beside his locker. Usually, they hung around Sora's, as she was typically the first of their group to arrive, followed by him. Tai and Hana routinely ran late, but that morning they were there even before he was. Izzy noted all these peculiarities as omens to something unpleasant—like diarrhea.

He shook his head. Recently, he had been talking a lot with Joe. The pre-med student could relate quite intimately with Izzy's caffeine addiction, and the distant worrywart's influence was clearly infiltrating his thought trains.

"Morning, Izzy," Matt greeted.

The bassist's smile was studied with care. Out of the four of them, Matt was the best at concealing secret motives, and so Izzy was keen to pay closer attention. It helped that his morning cup of coffee (spiked with a shot of espresso) had his brain functioning like a wheel of fire. It was _on_, lit up like a Christmas tree, but to his dismay, Matt's smile revealed nothing sinister. It was polite and genuine.

"Good morning," Izzy replied. He acknowledged each of his friends with a sweep of his dark eyes.

Hana leaned against the locker beside his and brought an object he hadn't noticed up to her lips. It was a thermos. The sip-cover was flipped open, and the aroma of its contents hit him sharply in the nose, as if he were just electrocuted.

"My aunt sent some coffee from Paris in a care package," she announced. She took a step towards him, and he knew what was coming next. The thermos would be offered to him like ambrosia from the gods, and he would be commanded to drink. "Want to try it? Don't worry, the beans are from a reputable boutique, and my dad knows how to properly prepare it—unlike the rest of Paris."

Izzy looked at her for a moment. He was already jacked up on his own morning dose of legally supplied, drug-powered energy, and he was certain this was a prelude to something of a far more diabolical nature. Despite those givens, he saw no harm in accepting one sip. Plus, in his idle research of the popular coffee bean, he preferred dark roasts most of all—precisely the type favored by both the Italians and the French.

"That's very kind, Hana," he said, taking the thermos. He sipped. The taste of it was almost sublime. Hana took her morning java slightly too sweet and creamy for his tastes, but he could still taste the rich, almost chocolatey bitterness of the actual coffee. It was like velvet on the tongue. Mimi would love it.

His mind drifted to the video chat he had had with her prior to going to school. Then, it was night time on her side of the globe, and she had just taken her evening shower. She lay on her side atop her four poster bed, an ocean of pink sheets beneath her. A schoolbook lay between her and her laptop and him, a highlighter occasionally resting in the crack.

She was still very much awake, but he could tell she was slowing down. She'd shake her head a few times while trying to read her book as he spoke to her while preparing for school. As he put on his tie, he noticed her stifle a yawn, blink her eyes of the water leaking out of her tear ducts. When he drank his cup of coffee in front of her, she crawled forward, her face occupying the entire screen.

"I'm jealous," she said. "I wish you could send me some right now."

"You're aware that you can make some at home?" he teased.

She pouted, jutting her lower lip.

"I'm being lazy."

"You'll fall asleep on your homework," he warned.

She scowled faintly, from which he took no offense. Her body needed energy it did not presently possess, and the frustration over the lack was being extended to him—in petty form.

"The things I do for you, Kou," she muttered, getting off her bed. He had to leave before she got back from making herself a cup, so he kept his camera on and left a note taped to the back of his desk chair—along with a parting gift:

"_This is no substitute," _he wrote_, "But one day you will wake up to this, and there will not be a computer screen in your way." _And in view, on his desk, was a steaming mug of coffee and a little plate beside, carrying a cookie.

Hana's voice yanked him from his daydream.

"Izzy, _reveille-toi!_"

His eyes snapped open in time to see her about to flick him on the skull again, and he dodged the blow, shoving back into her possession the thermos he had gotten too comfortable holding.

"It's quite good," was all he said.

Apparently, she read too much into the compliment, because later that evening, when he returned home from computer club, his mother immediately pointed him to two bags of coffee sitting on the kitchen counter.

Usually, Mrs. Izumi was quite touched and receptive of any gifts Hana delivered (European chocolate was a particular, though downplayed, favorite), but this time she spoke to Izzy with her arms folded, concern knitted over her brow.

"Izzy," she said. "This is a lot of coffee even for the three of us. I specifically recall buying a bag a few days ago, and it's down to the last beans already."

The first thought to cross Izzy's mind was, in fact, a prayer of thanks—gratitude that Hana's coffee delivery came before he woke up and found his caffeine supply diminished to crumbs. He blinked and looked at his mother as if reading her worry for the first time.

_Don't lie_, he told himself.

"Statistically, the third year of high school is the most difficult, Mom," he said. "I regret to announce that my recent behavior only attests to the fact, but I do anticipate that this present period of over-work and its subsequent caffeine-induced productivity will end—soon."

His mother blinked at him slowly. She did not appear in the least comforted by his verbosity and empty promise, but, at the very least, she was stunned into an acquiescent silence.

"All right, Izzy," she said after a lengthy, sweat-inducing pause. "I trust you."

He waited until he was in the privacy of his room to grimace at his increasing depravity—well, near-privacy. His web camera was still on from earlier, and Mimi was in the screen, beginning another morning on her end of the world. At present, she was perusing an issue of a teen magazine, lips pursing in fascination.

"What's wrong?" she asked, without looking up. He smiled meekly at the question, oddly comforted by her ability to detect an imbalance in his usual mood.

"My mother is... concerned," he admitted, sinking into the thin cushion of his desk chair.

She giggled, her shoulders shaking subtly. Had she been with him in person, she probably would be standing behind his chair, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her smooth hair brushing against the side of his face. The tremor of laughter would travel through to him, relaxing his nerves like bubbles in a hot bath.

"My parents are, too," she said, setting her magazine down. She looked at him, pointed chin cupped in the palm of a hand. "My dad couldn't understand me one morning. He said I talked like a gerbil."

Izzy chuckled. She did talk supernaturally fast when caffeinated. Sometimes he liked to tell her that she sounded like a robot, _beep-boop_ing in a synthetic tongue of her own invention.

"I understand if you decide to... 'quit,'" she added, her tone gently serious. He looked up, their glances locking, so intensely that he was in danger of forgetting he was staring at a screen. "I won't mind," she went on. She smiled for him. "Wait. That's a lie. I probably will, but I underst—"

"I'm not going to end this, Mimi," Izzy interjected. "It was a mutual agreement. I will honor my end. I deserve no leniency just because my mother is worried about me."

She hummed vaguely, the lapse in speech filled with silent consideration. Her lips worked to form words, or to give shape to doubts, but nothing was said. The twitching mouth stopped, thinned into a grin.

"Well, if that's the case," she resumed, "Do _I_ have some stories for you, Kou." She slapped her magazine on her desk and jumped up, talking to him while she rummaged through her closet. He interrupted her only once.

"Mimi," he said, loud enough so that her name echoed in his room.

"Yes?" she called back.

"How do you feel about Parisian coffee?"

xXx

Izzy Izumi stared aghast at the note he discovered on the kitchen table. It wasn't yet dawn, but the apartment was empty, his parents both having left for the day. The void was filled with the aggravating _tick-tick_ of the hallway clock, like the pips of a time bomb minutes away from detonation. His throat felt dry and shriveled—and foul. He swallowed with difficulty.

He was out. Sweet Mothership of the Imperial Galactic Space Army, he was out.

Of coffee.

Already his hands were shaking from caffeine withdrawal, and the note in his possession shivered between his fingertips.

'_No coffee this morning, Izzy," _it read._ "Ran out. Will purchase a bag on my way back from work. Love, Mom_. _P.S. - I hear tea is a sufficient substitute. Black only, though._'

He wiped his parched mouth with his hand, letting the paper fall from his grasp. The first stage was denial. The note was a lie, which he couldn't hold against his mother. He had lied to her, after all, about his dependency on the popular morning beverage. His first step, then, was to scour the kitchen cabinets for verification. Every door was opened and shut, some repeatedly, as if he expected a bag of coffee to materialize out of nowhere simply because he willed it.

None ever did, and so he was forced to accept the situation and continue on with the rest of his morning in the same depressing manner as a man walking to his own execution.

Still, panic seemed to course through him as he switched his computer on for his video chat with Mimi. The good thing about the anxiety was that it provided him with the adrenaline rush his morning cup of joe typically supplied; but _unlike_ Joe, he couldn't function on a constant state of borderline paranoia. Panic would only keep him awake for so long.

Mimi's figure cleared as the internet connection solidified. She, like him, was pacing her room, though for different reasons.

"Izzy!" she cried, bounding over to her web camera. In her arms was a package he now regretted ever sending, but the selfish thought quickly vanished in favor of gleaning energy from her euphoria. Heaven praise the peppy girlfriend who radiated verve out of her very pores.

"It's arrived!" She twirled about, holding the bag of coffee like a baby newly baptized. "I can't wait to try it. Hana swears on this stuff, right? 'Cause I'm going to hold it against her if it tastes like crap."

"It's a fine... blend, Mimi," he said, trying to check the amount of lamentation he let bleed into his speech. "You'll enjoy every... last... drop... of it."

Mimi stopped with her flouncing and peered at him suspiciously, the bag of coffee getting set aside as she leaned into the camera.

"Izzy, did you...?"

"No," he said, before she could finish. "I haven't. I..." He hissed in air as if he were getting a wound cauterized. "I ran out."

"Oh, Kou..."

He looked down but heard a strange, hollow pawing noise, like the inquisitive tap on an aquarium's glass. Mimi was scraping her manicured fingernail on the lens of her camera—her heartfelt, but pathetic attempt at long distance consolation. Izzy glimpsed at her image. How he wanted that hand in front of him in the flesh, stroking the side of his face.

He shook his head. The absence of coffee did not mean an absence in sense. The beverage was not his crutch. He would get through his day perfectly able and perfectly awake. He straightened his back and stared at Mimi head on.

"A minor hiccup, but one that does not interfere with our regularly scheduled plans," he orated. His primness was executed partly to convince _himself_ that he would survive the day without caffeine.

"All right," Mimi said, tinges of doubt in her tone. "I'm going to try this while you get ready for school."

Again, he had to leave before she returned to the screen, except he had not the time (or inclination) to leave her a written farewell. What he did leave, however, was his tie, which, in his rapidly descending mental haze, he had forgotten to put on.

The fact was pointed out by Tai, who came up to him and jabbed a finger at his chest.

"What's that?" he said.

Without thinking, Izzy looked down, and his nose instantly received a flick. The soccer player laughed gleefully, and Izzy knew something was definitely wrong in the universe if Tai Kamiya was more awake than he was on a weekday morning.

"Geez, Izzy, you haven't fallen for that gag since... well..." He scratched through his holy mess of hair, never forming his conclusion.

Izzy offered a groan, cantankerous and senile.

"Don't you find it rather early for your pranks, Taichi?" he retorted.

"_Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Tai huffed. "Where's your tie, Mr. I-aim-for-a-look-of-professionalism? Or whatever the hell it was you said."

Izzy was tempted to lean his head against the cold metal of his closed locker. His fingers were on the dial of his lock, lazily turning to his combination. Behind him he heard another voice enter his one-sided conversation with Tai.

"What? Koushiro's not wearing his tie, Tai? _Nooo..._"

He groaned mentally at the contrived skepticism of Hana's twittery voice. She had only said a few words, but it seemed that with them came the flood of all other raucous distraction. The murmur of other hallway conversations, the squeaky skid of feet on the tile, lockers banging open and shut. Hana's continued chatter was the catalyst, every racket swelling until it felt like his ears were being stabbed.

Nothing would have pleased Izzy more than to spin around and bark out an order for her to shut up, but the animosity would yield little benefit to the headache swiftly descending on him. His only solace could be found in touching his forehead to the cool metal of his locker, a few deep breaths taken in to rejuvenate his clouded brain.

Sleep came secretly and effortlessly, its emptiness the second best comfort next to a nap beside Mimi Tachikawa, her fruity perfume intoxicating his dreams, the soft exhales of her breath on his face simultaneously warm and cooling.

The reverie was invaded with the inquisitive murmurs of his friends, questions dribbling into his peace like a rain shower.

"Izzy? Izzy?"

Sora's maternal voice came through the clearest, followed by a shake on his shoulder.

His eyelids cracked open.

He blinked like a man coming up from a dark cave, eyes squinting at the people who surrounded him. Two reactions were provided: concern and curiosity.

"Izzy," said Tai, nudging him in the arm. "Dude, what is _up_ with you nowadays?"

"Yeah," Matt added. "You look like crap."

As bluntly as the observation had been phrased, Izzy abided by its accuracy. He rubbed his face with a hand.

"Everything is fine," he insisted; and it was, in reality. He had no true misfortune to relate except for the petty problem of a caffeine shortage.

Fortunately, the warning bell sounded, and he was spared any further prodding. He nodded to them—as if a bob of the head would be convincing—and left to go to his first class. He was unaware that his friends watched his departure with interest, looking back and forth between him and each other, undoubtedly forming joint plans to wheedle out the truth.

By lunch time, Izzy was at so vulnerable a mental stage that he delusionally imagined that this was what it felt like to be dying. He was irritable. Every muscle in his body felt dry and wizened, beef jerky Velcroed to bones. His head pounded like an abused bass drum. He was thankful his friends said nothing to him at the lunch table, though he did feel their stares on him like the finger of a child discovering a new, unfelt surface. Poking, poking, poking.

The rest of his afternoon seemed to push him to the limits of physical existence. He fought the droning voices of his teachers and their lectures, braced himself against fatigue, clung to consciousness until he thought his eyeballs would either shrivel into pits or pop out of his skull. Glances at other students showed a few who succumbed to that which he precisely resisted: sleep.

It was a luxury he couldn't afford. There was work to do, but aside from that, there was Mimi to video chat with. They had defied the construct of time for several weeks now (with the divine aid of coffee), but she would be expecting him to be present, to listen, to react. Maintaining their relationship on such grounds was arduous, oftentimes soul-sapping, and his logical mind frequently told him to keep to reasonable parameters: all conversations must end by three in the morning, no chats during exams, etc.

But the instant he sat down in front of his computer screen and absorbed every pixel of Mimi's face, all self-imposed restrictions were forgotten. He was sucked into a dimension entirely their own, every trace and atom of his being giving her its undivided attention. Time, simply, did not compute. There was but one tense when they met 'screen-to-screen': the present. It horrified Izzy that when he and Mimi at last decided to say their farewells, it was four in the morning on his end and Mimi was at risk of getting kicked off the cheerleading squad for being late to _another_ practice.

But they couldn't have conversations and coffee at a café, sitting across from each other and engaging in a game of footsie under the table. Nor could they exchange stories while holding hands, or murmur to each other whilst cuddling. The weekly dates their friends went on had to be resigned to fantasy. Communication was the strongest cord Izzy had with Mimi. Without it, he feared where they would be, drifting like debris in space, surrendered to the disconnect of mere geography.

He was determined, upon walking into his apartment after school, to maintain his immaculate record of attentiveness. The front door was swung open to its widest, his palm flat on its panel, his backpack already sliding off a sinking shoulder. Loafers were slipped off, slippers put on. His index finger flicked blindly for the nearest light switch, scuffing wall a few times before he finally happened upon his target.

His backpack dragged behind him as he made way to his bedroom, his heartbeat instinctively slowing in anticipation of approaching his bed. Izzy glanced at the piece of furniture with a wistful frown before turning his eyes to his desktop computer. After a few seconds of deliberation, he decided to use his laptop instead.

The green uniform jacket was removed and set on a hanger. Izzy sat himself on the edge of his mattress, laptop open and starting up beside him. Ten seconds later and he was on his side, resting on an elbow, one-handedly typing on the keyboard. Five seconds after that, and he was completely supine.

Mimi appeared in the screen yawning, her fingers tapping the oval cushion of her lips. If Izzy weren't so fatigued, he would have found the sight unusual. She was a bee in the mornings, awake and aflit in the very corporate American attitude of _carpe diem_.

"Mimi..." he began. His eyebrows slowly furrowed. "Why aren't you...?"

He blinked and focused his eyes on her, noticing no wooden shoreline of desk at the bottom of the screen. There was no cosmetic mirror facing her from the side like a searchlight, no bottle of nail polish, no pre-heating hair curler. He sat up and pushed his laptop away from him the instant Mimi's camera shook and shifted, showing Izzy a glimpse of her trademark pink bed sheets.

She was on her bed—like him—, using her laptop—also, like him.

Izzy gradually lowered himself back down on his pillows, and Mimi mimicked him through the entire process so that they were both lying down and staring at each other. She giggled brightly. A smile tugged on his lips.

"I... didn't take my coffee," she admitted.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Your reason being...?"

She laughed lightly and limply swat at her camera, Izzy getting a quick view of her palm before her face reappeared.

"Izzy, we've been running on this stuff like it's our lifeblood. Going cold turkey without it is crazy. I wasn't going to let you suffer that alone."

He felt the muscles in his face warp at her confession. It didn't make sense for anyone to willfully partake in another's suffering. It was natural human behavior to avoid pain at all costs. His confusion over Mimi's decision left him with few words to say in reply, and they were bitterly deflective.

"You shouldn't have done that, Mimi. Your academic performance could pay the price."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Oh, _Izzy._" Again, she imitated a slap to the lens. "Stop it with the logic. I want you to listen to me, okay? Don't pick my words apart. Don't look at me like I'm a computer virus invading your precious hard drive. Just listen, okay? Listen."

She inched closer to the camera, her light brown hair falling over her cheek, her large, amber eyes capturing his attention like the focal point in a painting. Her lips parted to speak, and her words floated through strands of hair almost at a whisper, nearly lost in the subtle static of his laptop's outdated audio system.

"I don't get to be with you in person, Izzy. I don't get to hold your hand, I don't get to hug you. I don't get to feel your heartbeat on mine. We don't _have_ that physical connection, Izzy. We just can't right now." She paused to rub her eyes, and Izzy wasn't sure whether it was because she was getting emotional or because they were dry from exhaustion. She sniffed. "Talking with you is great. I look forward to it every morning... or night... or whatever hour of the day we end up talking, but, you know, sometimes you can say a million words and not really know how a person is feeling. You just graze the surface. And it's like that with you, Izzy."

Mimi looked down, her lips bunching in thought and leaving Izzy to stew in the shameful truth of her observations. He knew he didn't make it easy for Mimi to decipher his feelings—in either words or gestures, and it was only through rote that she began to develop the sixth sense his mother possessed: the ability to infer his mood in one glance.

"So, really, Izzy," she resumed, calling him back to the present. "Whatever you're feeling... I... I want to feel it, too." She smiled meekly for him. Her hand reached out to him only to retreat at the last second, remembering that they would make contact with a machine and not a human face. "Whether it's your joy or your pain or—" She laughed. "—your caffeine withdrawal, I'll feel it with you... And maybe, one day, beside you."

Izzy could only stare at her in wonder bordering on genuine, heart-piercing awe. For a moment, all sleepiness fled him, and in that brief episode of enlightenment—the perfect conditions for harnessing logical brain power—the cerebral gears did not turn. All he was conscious of was her.

"Your empathy knows no bounds, Mimi," was the stupid response he could come up with.

She laughed at him and tossed her head back.

"That's not all true," she said. "Only for you."

He covered his eyes with a hand, feeling safe behind its shield to chuckle openly. He felt supremely privileged to receive such devotion from her and that merited some verbal applause.

Before long, the both of them were laughing full out, their lack of sleep and caffeine peaking into one last energetic offensive before their bodies burned out completely. Izzy could feel his eyelids drooping, the blips he received of Mimi punctuated with gaps of black. He yawned. She yawned, and he reached out to her, wanting to phase through hardware to get to her, to break through the synthetic user interface in pursuit of a human one.

"One day you'll fall asleep to this," he said drowsily, already feeling the pearly haze of slumber settle on him.

"I know," she whispered, and she finished his thought: "And there won't be a computer screen in my way."

xXx

Mrs. Izumi let them in as quietly as the squeaky front door hinges allowed. They stood on her doorstep, bowing before her as they filed one-by-one into her apartment. She was careful to silently convey her request for quiet by pressing her index finger to her lips, and the teens nodded in unison, Tai even going so far as to make a zippering motion over his mouth.

She watched as they crept towards Koushiro's room, the door of which he had left ajar. Mrs. Izumi was both glad and comforted that she was not the only person worrying over her son's recent behavior, and to have his friends check in on him was heartwarming to the highest degree.

Tai set his hand on the doorknob and gave it a slight push, parting the door just wide enough for four heads to poke through. Mrs. Izumi heard the boy start to speak: "Hey, Kou—" But his disruptive greeting was halted. She smiled to herself as she set a few mugs and plates on the dining room table and afterwards walked into the kitchen to grab the urn of coffee she had prepared. She knew what it was that startled the kids into silence, for it had had the same effect on her when she had come home.

The image of it was still vivid in her memory. Her son, sleeping peacefully on his side, his face illuminated in the glow of his laptop screen. In the monitor itself was the countenance of a familiar girl thousands of miles away, her light snores coming softly from his laptop speakers.

Her motherly musings were terminated prematurely. The teens presently spying on her child began to discuss the revelation.

"Huh," said Matt. "So that's why he's been guzzling coffee."

"What do you mean?" asked Tai. "Koushiro told me there was construction work going on!"


	11. A Sweet Gesture

**A/N****: I LIVE! I know I've been gone a while, but fyi, this chapter is kind of bad. But I can't let it sit and ferment any longer, so updated it is. Right. Mm'kay. So… this is kind of a girly chapter. And by "girly," I mean that it revolves around something I imagine lots of girls fuss about—myself included. So for male readers, you've been warned, though I promise it's not too awful. ;D**

**Happy reading!**

xXx

_- A Sweet Gesture -_

xXx

**H**e was waiting for it. She had just settled on the sofa with him, her back leaning against his chest. A theatrical sigh escaped her. Her chest swelled and deflated. Air whistled through her nose. Subtly, she maneuvered, shifting her body by degrees—a shoulder blade digging deeper into his breastbone, smooth legs stretching out on the couch. She strained to get comfortable.

Still, he waited for it.

Hana's hands drifted to her stomach. She patted it like a bongo drum and leaned her head back.

"I'm so fat," she murmured.

And there it was.

It was a proclamation much abused by her mouth, uttered without consideration to her audience or environment—the only gospel she found worthy of preaching with abandon. She would say it when they were out. She would say it when they stayed in. Her tongue would whip it out blithely among friends (usually met with silence or a quiet, boiling resentment); and in the midst of strangers, she'd gladly let it slide, ignorant of the glares thrown in her direction. And while people and surroundings had little to do with how she said it, a certain few factors _always_ had to occur prior to her declaration.

One, she had to have eaten a large meal.

Two, she had to have eaten an _unhealthy_ meal (giant bowls of salad didn't count), and:

Three, he had to have been with her.

Tai's response had been so overused it was an apathetic reflex.

"You're not fat, Hana."

She groaned and tossed her head back, her skull hitting him in the chest. A pair of green eyes peered up at him disbelievingly.

"Yes. I am," she asserted.

He sighed and slid away from her, removing himself so she fell back on the couch pillows. Her legs were still draped over his lap, pinning him in place.

"I _am_ fat," she repeated, and the reiteration was like a stubborn nail being driven into his skull.

Tai shook his head and pushed her legs off him, standing once he was freed. As he walked into the kitchen to grab a drink, she continued to justify her claims.

"I've gained more than _ten pounds_ since—"

"Since what?" he interjected loudly, yelling into the glowing interior of the Kurosawa refrigerator.

He didn't hear an intelligible reply, just a whimper of some sort, kittenish and whiny. His eyes scanned the shelves, and he hoped Mr. Kurosawa had something other than aloe vera juice and green tea to drink. All Tai saw aside from the usual was the half empty bottle of purple sports drink he had left last time he had gone to Hana's apartment. He took it out and twisted the cap.

"Since we started dating," Hana grumbled as he approached.

"Right. Blame it on me."

"I wasn't blaming _you_," she argued, glaring up at him as he continued standing by the couch. "I said _'we,'_ didn't I?"

"Yeah, but 'we' includes 'me.' So you think I'm partly to blame for your so-called 'weight gain.'"

"What?" she shrilled. "You don't hold yourself in the _least_ responsible? Look at what you eat, Tai!"

He shrugged.

"So? You don't _have_ to eat with me, or eat what I'm eating."

"I know I don't," Hana retorted. "But when you're waving cookies under my nose or speaking to me while stuffing your face with a cheeseburger and french fries, it's kind of hard not to!"

"Then don't look."

She scowled.

"Besides," he went on, slurping away at his sports drink, "_I_ eat that stuff, and look at me!" Smiling wickedly, he lifted the hem of his shirt and proudly patted his trim torso.

"You're an _athlete_," she growled. "_And_ you're a guy. You don't store the crap you eat in the fat pockets women have on their bodies. Hence these... these..." She stood up from the couch and gestured at her body as if she had an alien sprouting from her gut.

"Bodacious hips?" Tai finished. His smirk was wiped clean off with a quick, lightning fast slap upside his head.

"_Love handles!_" she shrieked. He thought she'd continue ranting, orbiting around her living room coffee table, stiff-necked and red as a chili pepper, but her body relaxed and she collapsed back onto the sofa, hugging a pillow to her face.

"My thighs touch when I walk!" she wept, howling away her agony into the pillow fabric. "They've never touched ever in my entire life!"

Tai snorted and ignored her as he sat himself down on the opposing end of the couch, letting her throw her little tantrum. As he drained the remaining contents of the bottle in his hands, he detected a shift in the pitch of her cries. An eyebrow was raised, and he squinted at Hana's convulsing back, reaching out a hand that settled on the back of her thigh. As tempted as he was to squeeze, he didn't.

"Are you seriously _sobbing_ over this, Han?" he asked.

She kicked his hand off her leg and turned around. Her face, indeed, was wet with tears.

"I hate this feeling," she spat, rubbing the heel of her palm up under her running nostrils.

"Pfft. Give me a break." He gave her a loving pinch in the arm. "You should like it. If you _have_ gained weight, then you gained it in all the right places." He grinned wryly, dropping his eyes so he could scan her from bottom to top.

Hana was not in the least soothed by his suave and suggestive compliment.

"I hate it," she repeated, sounding more and more like a demanding toddler.

She stood and looked hopelessly down at herself, fingers pinching the sides of her waist, roaming back to the supple curve of what she would call her _dèrriere_, before they traveled up, following the smooth, continuous line of her body before they reached their destination and clutched unabashedly at her _décolletage_.

Tai stared wide-eyed at her, feeling heat flame up his neck. He bit his lip tightly to avoid turning into a slackjawed idiot.

"Ugh," she groaned, squashing her breasts in. "All this bouncing when I dance," she complained. "I hate it! It's like extra baggage."

"So what are you going to do?" Tai questioned, growing flustered with her self-groping. "Chop them off?"

"I wish," she mumbled.

"What!"

Hana dropped her hands and set them firmly on her hips, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow at Tai for his exclamation—one that had moved him to stand in protest.

"Calm your tits," she said dismissively, sitting back down. "I just... I _know_ my body, Tai, and I can't exactly perform my best when I feel like a freaking whale."

"But—"

"Nuh uh." She sprang back up, standing on the couch cushions to be at his eye level. Her stiff pointer finger was placed over his lips. "Don't say anything that'll just make you a jerk. I'm going to need your support in this, Tai." She grinned thinly and leaned forward, brushing her nose against his. "Like a bra."

Tai grimaced as a result of resisting her kiss, which would have been an official agreement to the pact she was aiming to seal. The natural and most logical thing to do in his situation was lie.

"Yes, Hana, I will support you."

He didn't say the words per se, but whatever he murmured in reply was deemed satisfactory. Hana smiled, gave him a pixie-like pip on the lips, and jumped off the couch, scurrying away to call her father and amend his grocery list. Her phone call gave Tai ample time alone to wonder exactly what he had just signed on to do.

The worry, thankfully, was short-lived. When Hana came over to his apartment that Sunday evening for dinner, she had her usual two helpings before ending the night happily devouring two quarts of ice cream with him. The lack of change in her eating habits moved Tai to think her fuss earlier was simply another episode of feminine insecurity, and so he woke the very next morning irritated beyond help.

In the pre-dawn hours, his phone rang blaringly in his bedroom, forcing him to greet the day with a curse and an apology to his sister, who groaned and pleaded that he shut up whoever was calling him. Tai gladly replied that he'd punch whoever disturbed their slumbers, only to discover that his caller was Hana.

"Are you crazy?" he whispered harshly into the receiver. "It's not even five o'clock in the morning!"

She was impervious to his complaints.

"I'm on my way to your apartment," she said. She sounded breathless, which meant she really _was_ en route, literally making her way down the sidewalks in the greywash of dawn. Tai's eyelid twitched. "I was thinking we could do a run around the neighborhood," she blathered. "We'll have plenty of time afterwards to shower and get ready for school."

"What the hell?" he grumbled. "Are you out of your freaking mind, Han?"

"I'm here. Can you buzz me in?"

He was not happy to see her, and he was even less so when she forced him to suit up and lace on his running shoes. What made him more upset was that he was _actually_ complying. Of course (or so he tried to reason), she had caught him in a half-dead brain state, and he wasn't in prime mental condition to argue (not that he would have won even if he was).

But, he ran with her, the two of them circling the blocks of his neighborhood, her pony tail bouncing, his throat aching, her steps soft and light, his empty stomach filling with nausea. By the time they returned to his door front, Hana was lively and pink in the face, and he felt like puking.

He let her shower first so he could collapse on the couch and catch fifteen desperately needed minutes of shut-eye. Later, when he emerged showered and dressed for school, the rest of his family was up. His father was hastily putting on his tie, his mother was in the kitchen preparing his father's lunch, and Kari and Hana were at the table eating breakfast. As he sat, his girlfriend dropped a bowl in front of him and slid the carton of milk beside. He looked down and saw what he imagined was some sort of horse feed.

"It's granola!" Hana chimed, clapping her hands together. "Coated and clustered with just a dash of honey. Organic. A bunch of different whole grains. Excellent source for fiber and protein and vita—"

"Where's _your_ breakfast?" he asked, cutting off her advertisement. If she was going to make him eat the barn meal, he sure as hell was going to make sure she ate it with him.

"Oh. I ate already."

She pointed at her plate, which bore the curled peels of an orange and the yellow smear of a poached egg.

He stared dubiously down at his own breakfast, sneaking in looks at Kari and his mother when Hana turned to put her plate away. Both of them smiled and giggled lightly. The cereal remained untouched until Hana had gone to the bathroom, during which his mother came by, gave him a pat on the shoulder and said:

"It's the thought that counts, Taichi. Just try it."

Shrugging, Tai poured the milk and stuffed a spoonful into his gob.

"It's like eating rocks," he murmured, wincing mid-chew. Milk dribbled over his chin, and before his mother could wipe it off with the hem of her apron, he passed his uniform sleeve over his lips. "Stale rocks," he added. He swallowed and poked a finger around his mouth. "Are my gums bleeding?"

Lunch faired no better. He forgot that it had become a habit of Hana's to prepare his midday meal, and so when she handed him his bento box at the lunch table with Sora, Matt, and Izzy, he opened it with the eager expectation of a savory, meaty entrée. What he received was a grey, mushy mess of squiggles and lumpy squares, accented with the unnaturally bright, but flaccid, strips of various vegetables.

"It's a tempeh sauté!" she announced. "With soba noodles, and a light sauce with some zucchini and peppers!"

Tai saw Matt nudge Izzy with his elbow, and together, the boys smiled at him, their lips closed and humming a harmony of, "_Yummm..._" He kicked them each under the table, careful to exercise the same amount of strength used when shooting a soccer ball into a goal.

"Here," said Hana, her voice recapturing his attention. "Let me feed you."

"No, Hana," he said to no avail. "Don't. I can—"

Deftly, the chopsticks in her hand pinched a bushel of noodles and popped it into his jabbering mouth. Fighting a cringe, he closed his lips and chewed obediently. The noodles and sauce themselves weren't bad. It was the tempeh: bumpy, slimy, with such a lack of taste that it bordered on putrid. Hana never left the table, and he was forced to consume his lunch in its entirety. By the time the bell rang, he, again, felt like puking.

When evening arrived, he was immensely grateful that it wasn't his turn to eat dinner at the Kurosawa apartment. That was an honor reserved for Izzy, and Tai allowed himself the pleasure of grinning wickedly at the redhead's impending misfortune. He, meanwhile, raided the pantry and fridge after coming home from soccer practice, snacking away in his bedroom until dinner, after which he gorged on the hearty potatoes and beef of the _nikujyaga_ prepared by his mother.

"Tai, this is your fourth helping," Mrs. Kamiya noted, nonetheless refilling his bowl.

He smiled cheekily at her.

"I'm a growing boy, Mom," he said. _That, and my girlfriend has me eating grass and dirt._

His thoughts on Hana's new diet and exercise regimen were elaborated on during a phone call with Matt later that week.

"She's nuts, Yamato," Tai vented, speaking between bites of _dorayaki_. The sponge cake and red bean paste stuck to his teeth, leaving him making a series of sucking noises as he spoke into the receiver. "I blame it on Ryo. He made her watch what she ate like a prison warden."

"Well, she's a dancer, Tai," Matt reasoned. "I'm not saying that all dancers are like her, but it's not news that Hana puts a lot of stock in her appearance. She mops up the grease on her pizza for God's sake. I'd suggest indulging her a little."

"And what?" he said, accidentally spitting out bits of his pancake. "Eat the gluten-free, organic, reduced-fat crap she's been shoving down my throat? Do you know how much fiber she's made me eat today?"

"Keep that information to yourself, Tai," Matt replied. "All I'm saying is to go with the flow for a bit. Supporting her will boost her confidence, which she obviously needs right now. Maybe do a little research yourself. Recipes and stuff that are healthy _and_ don't taste like cardboard."

Tai groaned.

"_Why_ is she being like this anyway? I'm pretty sure Sora doesn't do this, and Izzy's never mentioned anything about Mimi complaining, either."

"Well... to be fair, Sora's pretty fit, and neither of us eat like you and Hana do. Sure, Mimi spoils Izzy with all the gourmet recipes she's learning in her cooking classes, but they don't feast on junk food."

Tai's agreement was muttered after he unleashed a burp; and by the time his phone call with Matt had ended, Tai was resolved to take the blond's advice, which ultimately didn't work.

Try as he might, Hana's neurosis over her food intake and the daily number of calories burned never got through to him. He did, however, manage to confess that, while he supported her choice, he wasn't going to restrict his own eating habits for her sake. He loved his meat, damn it.

As expected, she sulked, although eventually she let him have his way, and she didn't drag him into eating dinners of soggy tofu or breakfasts of fruit compote and cottage cheese (or, as he liked to call it, cellulite). The only time he genuinely felt bad for not partaking in her ridiculous, tasteless diet was when she called him up one evening crying over the phone.

"Han, what is it? What's happened?" he asked.

"I caved," she wept.

Tai heard the familiar crinkle of a package of cookies, followed by more of Hana's wailing, sprinkled sporadically with very audible munching.

"Caved?" he echoed, pretending to be ignorant.

"I'm eating cookies!" she cried. _Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. _"God, why am I such a pig?" _Crunch._ "I know I should have resisted. Why do cookies have to be so _good_?" _Crunch. Crunch._

Tai sighed.

"_Hana..._"

Her relapse finally provoked him into taking out the big guns, and, one evening, he called up Sora and Mimi, the latter of whom was visiting for a time.

"Hey," he said into the phone when each girl picked up. "So... I have a favor to ask you..."

xXx

Tai leaned against the kitchen cabinets, hands clutching the counter and drumming all ten of his digits in idleness. It was a pose he never kept for long. Sora would need to reach for something behind him and he'd have to relocate, or Mimi would need extra space to place ingredients or a mixing bowl and he'd have to move yet again. It never occurred to him how small his family's kitchen was—not until he was caught in it with two women that was.

"So..." Sora began, nudging him aside as she reached into the cabinet behind his legs. She pulled out a cookie sheet. "What's the occasion? Anniversary? Half birthday? An apology?"

"How much do you want to bet it's the last one?" Mimi teased, neatly arranging the necessary ingredients across the countertop.

"Ha, ha." Tai's glare was interrupted as he was pushed out of the way again by the two girls commanding the kitchen.

"So what is it?" Sora asked. "What's the reason for the sweet gesture?"

Tai leaned back against the refrigerator door and crossed his arms, sighing through his nose.

"You guys know that Hana's gone overboard with the whole weight loss thing, right?" he said.

Mimi and Sora paused in their baking preparations and stared at him.

"I think she's doing kind of well," replied Mimi, "...seeing as she's doing it all _alone_." Her amber eyes squinted ever so slightly at him, sharpening with a silent scold. Tai gladly returned what he believed was an undeserved accusation.

"Wait..."

Sora raised a hand, and Tai broke from his glaring contest with Mimi to observe her eyebrows wrinkle and her red-brown eyes concentrate on the kitchen tile. Just the faintest sense of unease invaded him. He knew the look well. Sora was dawning on an epiphany—one that likely would _not_ be in his favor. She raised her head, her discovery made known in the determination steeling her gaze.

"Are you having us bake Hana her favorite cookies to ruin her diet?" she posed.

Mimi's mouth dropped open with a horrified gasp.

"Are you _trying_ to get her to break up with you?" she cried.

"No," he retorted, scoffing. "And what—what is this? Both of you said you'd help me bake something for her. I'm just trying to show Hana that she shouldn't need to stress about these things. _I_ think she looks fine. Her body _is_ fine the way it is."

"Tai, there are better ways to express that to her," Sora explained.

"_Oh, I know_," he replied, remaining vague. If his shameless grin was any indication of where his mind was going, it was the wrong expression. Sora and Mimi were hardly impressed.

"We're talking about _supporting _her," Mimi interjected, shaking a metal whisk at his nose. "You know, playing along. I mean, Izzy doesn't always like what I cook. He's actually vomited a few times because I undercooked some meat, but he still lets me cook for him, he still tries everything. And he always gives he straight feedback."

"But that's different," was Tai's instant rebuttal. His stance hadn't changed, and he continued resting against the refrigerator, arms folded and unbudging. "If I don't tell Hana _right now_ that she's being ridiculous, she's going to go down the fast track to starving herself."

"Oh, please." Mimi rolled her eyes. Sora sighed. The way she did it reminded Tai of the sound his mother would make when he and Kari were children and bickered over which cartoon to watch on television.

"Okay," he said, lifting a hand. "What's your point? Why can't I do something for Hana that says, 'Hey, you nut. Stop stressing and eat a cookie. You look fine'?"

"Because, Tai," counseled Sora, "Hana doesn't need to hear the opposite from you. In all likelihood, you _not_ participating in this diet phase of hers might make her _more_ self-conscious. If you haven't noticed, Hana still eats. She's just adjusted _what_ she eats, and baking her cookies that will ruin her diet is kind of making a mockery of everything she's been doing so far."

"Well, good," he sassed, frowning and flaring a nostril. Yes, he had listened to everything Sora had said, but his mind had been made up before she had spoken more than ten words. "This entire diet of hers is a big fat joke, anyway. Pun intended."

Both Mimi and Sora looked at each other, the stare held between them was unwavering and telepathic. They shook their heads.

"You have a _long_ way to go to understanding women, Tai," said Mimi.

He blew out a puff of air.

"Okay, that's where you two are wrong," he said. "I don't need to understand women, okay? I just need to understand _one_ woman. My girlfriend. I _know_ that she will appreciate this."

Again, Sora and Mimi shared a glance, the former smacking down her cookie sheet and the latter gripping the edges of the closest mixing bowl. Tai watched with curiosity as each girl's stare narrowed on the other, lips twisting in thought, jaws shifting subtly back and forth.

"Then bet on it, Kamiya," Sora announced, switching her stare to him. He glared at her skeptically, but she was undeterred, approaching him with an extended arm, palm up as if expecting her winnings already. Mimi stood by, arms crossed in challenge, nodding her head in hopes of provoking him.

Tai frowned. Takenouchi was clearly spending too much time with Matt, who, along with Izzy, had taken up the habit of betting on the particulars of his love life for their amusement. He still hadn't gotten over the fact that the rockstar and computer genius had bet on the number of times he touched Hana's butt in public, and a good part of him was furiously curious over why either of them would be looking in that general area anyway.

"Fine, Takenouchi, Tachikawa," he replied, firmly shaking Sora's outstretched hand before shaking Mimi's. "You're on."

He left them to their baking afterwards, gradually inching his way out of the kitchen when their presences began to become suffocating. The kitchen wasn't the place for him—unless it was to grab food. Preparing it was a job better suited to the fairer sex.

Pleased with the outcome, Tai grabbed the T.V. remote, his body prepped to collapse on the couch when he felt two pairs of hands yank him back.

"What do you think you're doing, Tai?" Mimi asked, tsking at him while Sora pulled the remote from his grip. "You don't expect us to do you're dirty work while you sit there and watch television, do you?"

Arguing with the two of them again was too exhausting a possibility, and begrudgingly, Tai allowed himself to be dragged back into the kitchen, where he served as an extra kitchen appliance. "Here," they would say, shoving a bowl into his arms. "Stir." Or, "Hold this, while I..." Or, "Can you get me that? No, not that. _That_."

At one point, he got a blob of batter on his shirt, and after Sora wiped it away, Mimi came up with the lovely idea of putting his mother's apron on him.

"You want to look presentable to Hana when you give her her diet ruining cookies, don't you?" she reasoned while Sora chuckled lacing the ties behind his back.

He fussed, as was expected whenever his male pride was under threat, but the girls assured him.

"It's not like Izzy or Matt will ever see you like this, Tai," said Sora. "Besides, this is for Hana, remember?"

"Yeah. Sure," he replied.

Presently, he set the mixture he was stirring aside on the counter and stretched to yawn, expressing how evidently unsuitable he was for the domestic life. In that time, he heard what he thought was the click of a camera snapping a photo, but when he opened his eyes, all he saw were Sora and Mimi, their backs to him as they began piping the cookies onto the metal sheet. Their faces were calm, focused, and betrayed no hint of mischief.

"You can stop now, Tai," Sora informed him, not once glancing up from her work.

"Finally," he breathed. He gladly took off the apron and bounded out to the living room, jumping onto the couch and switching on the television to watch a soccer match, unaware that Mimi and Sora had paused from their baking to review the photo of him they had sneaked.

"Okay," whispered Mimi, grinning evilly. "Sending copies to Yama and Kou in three... two... one."

xXx

Hana stood in front of the dining table, her arms limp by her sides. Her green eyes stared unblinkingly at the lone plate of chocolate hazelnut macarons placed in its center, stacked like a pyramid.

Tai hadn't said a word to her. She had entered the apartment the moment Sora and Mimi had exited it, and she had taken a glance at his disheveled kitchen before making the usual way to the living room where she would drop off her things from ballet practice. The plate of macarons halted her, and her ballet duffel sat lumped at her feet as she continued to stare wordlessly at the offering.

"I... thought you could use a little pick me up," he finally said, though it seemed like speaking the words in an otherwise silent apartment was disruptive and taboo—more so when she said nothing in reply for a long time.

"Are you... trying to sabotage me?" she asked, shifting her green gaze to him.

Tai gritted his teeth. _Damn, _he thought. Sora and Mimi had been on to something.

"No," he said lamely. He couldn't follow up the monosyllabic denial with further supporting evidence, either. All his ammo had been used up in his argument with Sora and Mimi, and, looking back on it, he knew Hana would have been even less inclined to accept his reasoning.

"Then what are you trying to do?"

She wasn't angry, nor upset. He had heard her use such inflection with him before, when they had argued and she had talked to him after taking time to cool off. It was the sound of resignation—not to him or his stance on whatever they had bickered about, but to her genuine curiosity to understand him. She would use the same hushed gentleness when she talked to herself while doing school work that befuddled her. "_Why?" _she would murmur to her textbook, the tonal equivalent of "_I don't understand_. _Help me._"

"Hana," he began, finding it easier to explain himself since she wasn't throwing a rage. At least he got that part right. "You don't think you're taking this weight loss stuff a little too seriously? I mean, it's only ten pounds. And some of that could even be muscle. In fact, most of it could. Muscle weighs more than fat, anyway."

She smiled weakly at the technicality of his approach, but it was a deflective smile.

"Only ten pounds?" she echoed. "What if it was twenty? Or thirty? Or forty?"

The sputtered chuckle came out before he could contain it.

"I don't think you'd ever let yourself go like that."

A sigh escaped her. She took a step and tapped the rim of the plate, her finger the metronome measuring the seconds that beat by.

"You don't know that," she said. Her face lifted and she looked directly at him, her tapping finger stopping. "I know that half the time you zone out when I talk ballet, but I'm certain you've at least absorbed by spending time with me that ballet is aesthetic. What people see of me is of the _utmost_ importance, Tai, and to tell the truth, I don't have the people who will help me manage my body in my life anymore. My mom is gone. Ryo's not here. My dad's like you. He doesn't tell me what and how to eat. He was never the one in my family to do that. It was my mom." She broke off and exhaled loudly. "Ballet is about discipline. I'm going to need to do this, Tai, and it's hard enough having to do it alone. Of course I won't force you to do anything with me you don't want to do, but it would mean a lot to me, and it would really help me, if you didn't do anything to trip me up."

He struggled against dissecting her last comment. Why did she always peg the blame on him? Make him look like messing her up was something he did on purpose? In an effort to hide his disappointment, he covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to rub his chin as if in thought when it was more to wipe the frown surfacing on his face.

"You do know that one plate of macarons isn't going to kill you, right?" he said, hoping to make light of their conversation.

She bunched her lips together, her nose twitching subtly as if fighting a sneeze. Tai continued.

"Because I'd rather you cave on something I know you love—with me, the guy you're crazy about—than have you crying on the phone getting crumbs all over your bed."

Her perfect posture drooped, and her stare settled on him again, the green of her irises faded and sparkless.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked quietly.

His head shook before he knew it.

"No, I'm not," he said. _And neither will you_, he added privately.

She sighed.

"Okay, then, Kamiya," she said, and his surname was pronounced with the faintest of giggles. "One plate of macarons isn't going to kill me—especially if they were made by Sora and Mimi."

The space between them closed, and she wrapped an arm around him, her head leaning warm against his chest as she picked up a cookie.

"Who says that this is all Sora's and Mimi's work?" he joked, speaking to her as his cheek rested atop her head. "What if I'm a culinary genius and you just didn't know it?"

Hana snorted.

"Hah," she cackled, taking a bite. "That'll be the day." She licked her fingers afterwards.

The next cookie she picked up she offered to him, and instead of taking the sweet in one bite, he took it in two. He decided to do her a favor and removed the lingering smear of chocolate on her fingertips with his mouth, unaware that he had left traces of the ganache filling on his lower lip. She stood up on her tiptoes and licked it off.

"Huh," Tai said. He smiled devilishly. "They're good, am I right?"

"Oh, yeah," came Hana's simple reply. She reached for another. "Like the ones from Paris."

They finished the entire plate, and again, they were lying in a food coma on the sofa.

"We need to burn off these calories, Tai," Hana proposed.

He breathed out onto her hair. She smelled like chocolate.

"Are we running tomorrow morning?" he asked, yawning.

She rolled over and peered up at him, a nefarious grin spreading over her lips. Before he could raise an eyebrow at her for the look, she sat up and grabbed his shirt, pulling him off the sofa and toward the direction of his bedroom.

"Oh," she sang, winking at him, "I think we can be a _little_ more creative than that, Taichi."

xXx

**A/N****: Hmm… If you think that the issue at hand here was never properly resolved, then you're right. It wasn't supposed to be. I wonder what that might mean for the future? :D **

**Anyway, I apologize for the lack of updates. I have so much stuff going on in my life that it's been really difficult finding time to just sit down and write. BUT, I decided to update this one because it's my birthday, and I thought I owed it to myself (and to you guys!) to put this story one step closer to completion. **

**Next update will probably be sad and Hana-centric (with some Ryo Hiraki thrown in), so if that repels you, feel free to flee. After that, I'll probably do Tai and Izzy friendship time. **

**Anywho, as always, thank you so much for reading! You guys are amazing for putting up with my slow updates and my cracktastic writing. XD But, really, any feedback you have would really help me along. :) **


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